There was a dragon in the capital.

Its long, black talons reached over the crowd, hovering above the masses like a shadow of death looming over the horizon. Its tail slithered behind the path, curling over the rocks and cobblestone that bumped and bumped and bumped. Cheers clamored, hollow yet soothing, fearful yet welcoming, everything expected at the arrival of the king of Asborough.

The new dawn of war and tumult shattered twelve generations of peace, but no one felt the weight of the destruction when victory clouded judgment and blinded them from the base fear of reality. Perverse as it was, the dragon was a reckoning, the might of a forlorn hero, for wherever it trod, it paved paths of gold from crimson like magic, a sleight of hand.

Confetti danced like colorful wisps of falling snow, landing on my hair and tickling my nose. I sneezed, but the sound went unheard, meaningless amongst the high adrenaline sparking from the flint and steel that braved our enemies’ front lines.

“Long live the king! Long live the protector of the realm! Long live the Dragon of the East!”

Ahead on his golden armor-clad stallion, my father smiled and waved—so different of a mien than the one I grew accustomed to. His silver hair was greased back with sweat, and despite the wrinkles creasing his face, his looks maintained his boyish luster that charmed everyone he met. The tailed ends of his cape fluttered in the dying winds, billowing and flapping, almost like the wings of a great dragon. 

Azure powder burst in the air, flaunting the color of our nation. Stragglers joined the excitement, shoving and reaching towards their king, raising their children as if one touch was a blessing from God himself. They only saw what the eyes of their desire commanded; they only saw a pristine king making conquest through the realm. They never saw the blood, nor torture, nor death. They only basked in the prospect of saccharine triumph, not a single thought wasted on the sacrifices made.

We all knew: the soldiers behind me, ahead of me, beside me. But we sealed our mouths shut, for there were more menacing threats to consider before foolishly easing the ire in our souls. To my chagrin, my father deluded himself in his blood-tinged rewards, skillfully concealing his sharp fangs and passing yet again as the king of Asborough.

* * *

The dragon’s presence coiled around me like a snake, suffocating, dominating. Every huff from its flaring nostrils boiled the air, scorched my exposed skin, and not even the southern breeze could abate the sweltering heat.

Below, the Kingdom of Asborough reveled in its subsequent successes. Rolling hills stretched over the vast southern landscape that was dyed red under the setting sun, and flocks of birds from the war-torn south traveled north, passing overhead in high-pitched caws and screeches as they followed the gusts of the autumn wind that wafted the stench of the malodorous harbor.

From the balcony overlooking the kingdom, I watched the city thrive. The throng of commoners thinned as the moon ascended, casting a spell of silence over the land. But countless merchants and sailors still wandered the docks, carrying goods and wares to the markets for the next sale.

The flourishing city pulled me from the bitter truth of reality for a fraction of a second until my father clapped my shoulder. His cursed presence weighed me down, anchoring me like chains shackled to my limbs. He extended his arm, gesturing for me to look.

“This is your legacy, Son. Our legacy.”

The dragon was back. Every breath it took burned my nape, and for fear of death, I wordlessly nodded. My father glorified the beautiful landscape, pointing at the luscious trees and glimmering lakes, but his voice faded as my eyes landed on the horizon.

Everything eluded me—my father’s gloats, the crows gathering like black clouds, the first glints of the bright constellations in the east. Far, far away, my eyes trained on a plume of smoke devouring the southern skies.

* * *

Though thousands died in the raids, the dragon’s bloodlust was not sated. Its pointed tail sliced the air and pounded the marbled ground in aggravated impatience. Soft growls from its throat ignited bursts of flame so intense that firelight seeped through the fissures of its scales. Occasionally, the ominous clacks of its talons reverberated through the palace halls, carrying centuries’ worth of threats.

While I could not stomach even looking at the food lavishly set on the long table, my father engorged himself with detestable glee.

“We won,” he had said on the balcony many days ago, his iron grip on my shoulder toeing the edge of pain. “We are victorious.”

We are monsters, I had nearly retorted, but there was no amnesty for traitors, not even for a prince. 

As always, the streets commenced celebration, rousing lively spirits in the taverns and inns that boomed with animated chaos. Dusk to dawn, dawn to dusk, the merriment persisted, ignorant to the screams and bloodshed miles away at the border. So close, yet so far.

I remained in my seat like a forsaken puppet loose on its strings, deaf to the cheers but aware of the iron-tang scent of blood layered beneath the duplicitous aroma of sweet ale. People were dying. Mothers holding their children. Fathers daring to dissent. Soldiers burning in flames. A nation decimated at its core.

“Eat,” my father commanded, tearing into his chicken thigh.

I gritted my teeth. What I wanted to do was throw my goblet and slam my palms on the tabletop. What I wanted to do was fling my knife at my father and revel in his screams as blood gushed from his forehead. What I wanted to do was smash my father’s head with a metal plate, and strangle him with my bare hands, and feel his pulse diminishing under my fingertips as he fruitlessly struggled. What I did was cut a portion of my pork and eat it, repulsed by the vile blood each chew rewarded.

Tearing another chunk of meat, my father looked satisfied. I was on the verge of curling into a ball and retching, but the dragon pressed against my shoulders with unrelenting pressure, a reminder of what was to happen should I object.

As I swallowed, the wrangled meat clawed at my throat like human nails slowing their descent to the pits of hell. Each blazing scar was a cry, a demand: “Why do you slaughter next to that beast?”

For them, I had no answer. But for me, their anguish grew louder, stronger, faster, harder. “Why!?” the torrents screamed, shredding my throat raw, parching it faster than an inferno would a puddle. “Why do you slaughter next to that beast!?”

Dust hung heavy in the smoky air, glittering like white stars in the bars of sunlight that burst behind the swelling drapes. The dragon breathed, colored the room with soot, and wrapped its barbed tail around me. With shaky hands, I reached for my goblet. A warped reflection of my paled face stared at me and tilted its head without my consent.

“Why do you enjoy slaughtering next to that beast?” my reflection asked. I silenced it with my hand and drained the wine, ignoring the red lines it drew over my chin. Quelling my rapid breaths constricted in the grasp of a demon, I excused myself with a smile and raced to my chambers, not bothering to wait for the servants trailing behind. Locked in the pretense of privacy, I coughed up the meat, leaving the bitter sting of acid on my tongue.

Scarce patterns of the moonlight danced across my skin. The stars were alight, glimmering their mockeries in the dead silence, praying on my weakness and servitude. Smoke still clouded the south, and faint screams resonated over the rolling hills—whether reality or my imagination I did not know.

Chatter and laughs slighted the pain Asborough wrought, the truth everyone blatantly ignored, while clacks of the dragon’s talons ticked one by one, counting the seconds to my unbidden revelation. Fiery breaths surrounded me, blurring my thoughts, buzzing in my ears, blindsiding my fear, and I let it wash over and through me like sand in an hourglass, each granule a stolen life.

Slowly, ever so slowly, I raised my head to the blackened skies, felt my puppet strings grow taut. As the son of a tyrant, a monster, a dragon, no longer would I remain idle.

* * *

The apothecary called it a concoction that must not be named, a practice rooted in sacrilege and iniquity, a poison brewed from the flesh of a slain dragon. In its vial, the liquid shone a crimson akin to the blood of fallen soldiers. And like blood, it spilled gracefully into my father’s goblet until the last drip, the last ripple, and the doors of the great hall burst open in celebratory fervor.

That night, as the generals and advisors enjoyed a feast befitting gods and blinded themselves in the charms of pretty women, my father drank every last drop of his wine. I honored my victory in disguised laughter with the concubines and relished the prospect of the Dragon of the East falling at the hands of his own kin.

* * *

Colorful flowers of all shapes and sizes graced the gardens despite the whips of winter tailing the razor-edged winds. As I strolled through the gardens with my father, servants followed a distance away to allow the illusion of privacy, the crunch of their steps joining the chitters of the last insects and the chirps of the birds flocking north. Ahead, my father staggered, paused, and continued walking.

A fortnight had passed since the last embers of celebration had died in the city. Since then, the grave haste of wartime unease had settled like a dense fog, like an invisible beast waiting to pounce when least expected. Normally, I would be among those who frequented the war rooms and the barracks to mitigate my discomposure, but with the king at the precipice of his inexplicable ailment, I could not afford to divide my attention.

My father stumbled and retched, bracing his stomach as he coughed bursts of scarlet that colored the yellowing grass. I offered my hand, accustomed to the routine. Despite being unfit to leave his chambers, my father opted to show his face in public, to hold his head high and his shoulders broad, to boast our nation’s strength for all to behold.

I gripped his shoulder. To him, it was a sign of gentle reassurance. To me, it was a barrier to suppress my exhilaration. The dragon was wailing, its breaths dwindling, its presence no longer guarding the halls. Its once-mighty wings beat the ground, too debilitated to take flight, and when its bones groaned and cracked under its undulating scales that grew duller and duller, my father fell unconscious.

The servants were the first to cry in horror. I stood beside my father’s crumpled form, unmoving, embracing the tears blurring my sight. Guards raced to our aid, and I sank to my knees, weeping like a child. But my sobs were that of joyous delight, for the dragon was finally dying.

* * *

The throne was laden with emeralds and rubies, spoils of past wars and conquests. They shone like rays of light in the dimmed throne room, bouncing off the grim walls and painting a myriad of colors on my father’s face.

His silk robes swept across the marbled floor as he paced, whispering unintelligible thoughts, his thumping footfalls uneven. A haze had settled in his grayed eyes, and his body, though fully present, was doomed without a captain, a lost boat at sea. Mindless, he shuffled as he scratched clean marks on his reddening neck. I kneeled before him, studying his pitiful state, tapping my fingers to his steps.

One. Kill him.

Two. Kill him not.

One. Kill him.

Two. Kill him not.

One—

My fingers twitched, itching to grab my sword resting at my side, but I refrained. Killing him was mercy. My father draped himself over his throne, his pants echoing. One hand covered his face, while the other played with the crown by his side.

I lowered my head in deference and said, “The enemy draws nearer, Father.”

“I did not summon you for your counsel.”

“I merely state a fact. Rumors carry the word that the Dragon of the East has fallen. Once our enemies hear of our weakness, they will surround us.”

With a pained scream, my father threw his crown against the ground. It clattered and bounced down the steps of the dais, rolling to a rattling stop beside my left knee. Blankly, I stared at it—my glorious birthright, my legacy—and blinked, holding back a grimace.

“Send our strongest men to the southern border!” my father bellowed, digging his nails into his arm. Perspiration doused his brow, and the wrinkles on his face deepened with every breath he took as if he was aging decades each second.

Hiding a smirk, I bowed. “As you wish, Father.”

* * *

Blood and fire rained on Asborough like a silken veil smothering the city. Worn and drenched soldiers paved the way through the muddied streets, dragging the thick chains around their wrists and ankles. Their blue uniforms were tattered, and the sigils of the Azure Dragon etched onto their backs were stained after the grisly waltz of battle. Through the silence, past the mothers shielding their children, past the commoners watching the advancing army in terror-stricken awe, a banner showcasing the Vermillion Bird stormed the capital.

Our soldiers sent to the south were quickly dismantled, for a young general had risen through the ranks of the southern forces. He was a phoenix—one that had flown from the depths of the ashes, had dared to face the almighty Dragon of the East.

My father was perched on his golden throne atop the hundred stone steps, looking down at the general with the most disgust his enfeebled body could muster. At his side, I waited for his surrender, but his order never came. And that marked the start of an encore of bloodshed.

Our surviving soldiers were beheaded, and the capital was doused in malignant flames of bright red and blue. All the while, the general smiled, donning the face of a man who had tasted pure vengeance. With a torch in hand, he took the first step up the stone stairs, then another, and another until he stood before my father, looking down at him with all the pride his youth could muster. 

Two beasts roared, and I, though close, observed from afar, ignorant to the screams and death below. The general glanced from me to my father, who had lapsed into another coughing fit, heaving through wave after wave of blood and acid. I gripped his shoulder, but he still fell limp in his throne, breathing his death sentence.

There was no mercy in the general’s gait as he set fire to the scrolls and books in the great library, letting the explosive blaze evolve into an inferno that engulfed the palace. Ashes fell like snow on a peaceful winter morning, and red shadowed the blue sky. As I threw my sword to the side and kneeled in submission, my father drew his sword and approached the general on trembling legs.

“I will not lose to the likes of you, boy,” my father said, wheezing. Before he could raise his sword, his legs gave out and he crumbled to his knees. 

The general spat. “Surrender, lest the Dragon of the East should fall to the hands of the Vermillion Bird of the South.”

With a shake of his head, my father sealed his demise. The general threw the torch on my father’s silk robes, and red flames licked my father’s skin that melted like wax on a candle, every drop of flesh repentance for the havoc he had wreaked. Leaving my father to writhe, the general drew his sword and rested it under my chin.

“Do you surrender, Prince of Asborough?”

With a nod, I sealed my fate.

Sparing me, the general stood atop the stairs for the kingdom, the world, to behold and raised his sword, shouting a chant of triumph. Behind him, the dragon squirmed with the last ounce of life, and once it stilled forevermore, from the chaos, the shouts of men filled the air. It was the trumpet of victory, the song of angels, the fall of a kingdom, and the death of a dragon.

* * *

The great halls of the palace rumbled in memory of that day many years ago as I opened the charred doors crooked on their hinges. Gleams of sunlight filtering through the splinters in the wooden walls shone on the clouds of ash that flurried as I limped towards the throne, glimpsing shadows of my childhood running in my peripheral vision.

An infant evading the snare of the servants’ grasps as the king and queen laughed. A child sitting beside the king with his head held high as he listened attentively to the processes of a council. A boy mourning under the thunderous boom of a storm as the king sobbed from his throne. And a prince kneeling before the king, pondering whether to execute death.

The mirages evanesced as I ascended the steps of the dais and faced the once-golden throne marred with scorch marks. Without its owner, the den was hollow, but still, I brushed the grime and debris and uncovered the crown resting beside the throne. Somewhere in the deep recesses of the palace, roars shook the earth, and flapping wings sent gales of wind swirling like a tempest.

Grabbing the crown, I blew the surface clean, stared at my aged reflection, and smirked.

There would be a dragon in the capital again.

Fresh spring air blew through Kim Taehyung’s light, turquoise-coloured hair as he walked along the quiet sidewalk. The midday sun in the cloudless sky shone brightly upon the lone boy. The light from its rays highlighted strands of his bouncy, fluffy hair, which gave the boy a breathtakingly angelic look to any passers-by. His big brown eyes scanned the tall, stone walls with neatly-kempt green ivy that hung down its length.

The familiar walls he walked along made up the boundary of his home away from home: the town’s Traditional Korean Gardens. Nearly every day—despite rain, shine, hail or snow—Taehyung would visit the gardens and spend his time roaming the grounds at a leisurely pace. With the amount of time he had spent there, he could probably walk around the entire place blindfolded and not once step on any plants, run into structures, or fall into any ponds.

Since Taehyung had been a little kid, he had walked the same ten-minute route to the Korean Gardens. While he may walk the same path alone these days, he knew in spirit and in soul he was never alone. And although he missed his grandparents being by his side with him in the beautiful gardens, he knew they both were in a much better place. As he looked upon the entrance in the far distance, happy memories resurfaced of his times spent there with them.

Taehyung’s bright, brown eyes looked up at the hands of his grandparents holding each of his tiny hands. Laughter filled the quiet sidewalk as the trio walked side by side. The low voice of his grandfather as he softly explained the importance of someone taking care of the gardens for future generations. The kind words his grandmother told him as she gently ran her hand through his soft hair while he laid his head on her lap. The last smiles he ever saw his grandparents give as they sat shoulder to shoulder in their wheelchairs while overlooking the last sunset they were to ever witness at the very same place they had met.

The Traditional Korean Gardens held a special place in Taehyung’s heart. It was one of the only things he looked forward to in his lonely life. A soft sigh left his pink-tinted, slightly plump lips as he allowed those treasured memories to fade. His brown eyes travelled along the ivy-covered stone wall once more as a small smile tugged at the corner of his lips. Soon, he would cross the entrance and be filled with a calmness only this place could give him.

In the distance, not too far off from the entrance, Taehyung saw a small group of eight boys heading in his direction. His heart instantly dropped, and his palms grew sweaty. He knew exactly who they were and what was about to occur. The group pounced on any opportunity to gang up on him. They had never been kind to him, and nothing he had done changed for them to leave him alone.

Taehyung grasped the strap of his black messenger bag tighter in his hold. The cool spring air seemed to disappear while the sunlight bore down upon him in hot waves. His inner anxiety swelled as his eyes locked with the leader and main initiator of the group. The taunting cheers from the group filled the previously quiet streets. The horrifying sounds oppressed his will to run away in the opposite direction; instead, they beckoned him towards the only safety he knew.

“Well, well, well,” sneered Lee Ji-Hoon, the leader, as he sauntered up to Taehyung until he was face-to-face with him. His light brown eyes sparkled with joy as he thought about how he would soon be inflicting pain on his victim. “Who do we have here? Guys, look who wants to have some fun with us.”

“Leave me alone,” Taehyung said weakly with his tearful eyes locked on the concrete pathway below his feet.

“Awe, does the little queer flower boy want to be left alone?” Ji-Hoon jeered at the top of his lounges, and the group around him laughed just as loudly.

“I’m not queer!” Taehyung yelled as his head snapped up at the familiar taunt. It didn’t matter how much he would deny the mocking remark. They would always call him that. “Just leave me alone, Ji-Hoon. Go find someone else to pick on today.”

As Taehyung went to step around the group, two arms grabbed him from behind and held him firmly in place. A hot breath brushed against the back of his neck as he squirmed in the grasp, desperate to get away, but he ultimately failed against the strength. The other seven boys surrounded him, trapping him in a circle. It was a cruel stark reminder of how outnumbered he truly was in this situation.

“Now, now,” Ji-Hoon lowly tsked directly into his ear, his hold slightly relaxed once Taehyung had stopped resisting. “That’s no way to treat your Hyungs, now is it? Be a good little flower boy today, and we won’t be here long. We’ll be on our way, and you can return to being the little loner you are.”

“Over here, gay boy,” a voice of one of the lackeys called out.

Ji-Hoon forcefully turned Taehyung in his arms to face the short, overweight kid who had spoken a moment ago. Instantly, Taehyung’s body became tense as he waited for the oncoming blow from the other boy. He had been through this many times to know each of them would get a few punches in before leaving him alone with their sick satisfaction fulfilled for the time being. And sure enough, a mere second passed before the lumpy fist connected with his clothed stomach.

The force from the punch almost left him breathless. It obviously had landed on something it shouldn’t have. Another right-handed punch came before he had a chance to recover, one of many more to come. This time it landed upon his left cheek. The blow had enough force that it sent both Taehyung and Ji-Hoon stumbling backwards a few steps. Only the taunting laugh of the entire group filled his ears as he was once again forced to turn towards another one of the boys.

Punch after punch hit him, and each blow took a piece of his heart. His body ached from the physical abuse as he tried to endure it for a little longer. His mind focused on the beautiful ground a few metres down from them. The thoughts of being in the gardens kept him from giving in to the cruelty and breaking down in tears. And ultimately, it was that thought alone that pushed him to finally make his move to freedom.

Taehyung could feel Ji-Hoon’s arms relax and fall away from his body. Now free from his captor, he took the opportunity to do something he had never done in all the years he had been the victim of this group. He fought back. Taehyung turned on his heel and swung his own fist with as much force as he could muster. His knuckles connected in a sickening crunch squarely on Lee Ji-Hoon’s nose.

Everything around Taehyung seemed to slow down as the leader stumbled back with his head held in his hands. All the sounds around him disappeared, while time froze completely as his wide eyes stared at Ji-Hoon’s bent form in shock. All seven of his lackeys suddenly gathered around their leader to help him tend to his bleeding nose. Taehyung didn’t waste another second. He turned on his heel and ran with every fibre of his being toward his sanctuary.

“Yeah! You better run, fucking faggot! We’ll get you next time!” yelled Ji-Hoon, his voice quickly fading the further the distance between them.

Heavy footsteps, pounding heartbeat and laboured breaths dominated his hearing as Taehyung ran as fast as he could towards the entrance of Korean Gardens. He did not dare turn to look at his tormentors, afraid he would either see them coming or that he would fall and they would capture him again. Even above his panting, he could still hear all eight boys jeering and taunting him. Tears swelled in his eyes, and he fought to hold them back. So close. He was so close to his safe place.

The second Taehyung passed under the curved, red-tiled archway that connected the stone walls, a sense of serenity washed over his aching body. His tear-filled eyes roamed the calmingly still grounds as he came to a halt a few meters inside his safe haven. He wiped away the slight sweat that had built up on his eyebrows. The chill spring breeze returned, cooling his overheated body and entering his burning, oxygen-deprived lungs.

Disbelief and shock ran rampant in his mind. Never before had he fought back. He had always been so compliant in their beatings, relenting to his fate. He didn’t know he had that side in him. Part of him couldn’t believe he had been so brave to finally give them a taste of their own medicine. But another part of him, a much larger one, knew he would pay big time for laying a hand on Ji-Hoon.

Taehyung’s body automatically moved on its own while his mind lingered on what had just transpired. It took him down one of the many gravel paths on the grounds. His eyes wandered the picturesque landscape before him. The trauma from moments ago began to be erased the further he walked in the calming gardens. He smiled as he walked past one of many ponds. This particular one happened to be filled with tones of large koi fish of all colours.

A large Beot-Kkot tree with light pink flowers loomed above the peaceful pond. Taehyung watched as a few of its flowers drifted downward, carried gently by the soft breeze, to settle upon the surface of the water below. A smile graced his lips from the tranquillity of his surroundings. Nothing but the sounds of nature filled his ears while he continued to walk along the gravel trail.

His eyes wandered along the beautiful rows of white, pink, red, orange, yellow and purple coloured tulips. The flowers were well-maintained by the groundskeepers, proven so by the stench of the freshly laid fertiliser mixed with soil that suddenly filled his nostrils. On the other side, opposite the tulips, were Maehwa trees after Maehwa trees lining the edge of the path. Its long branches filled with both partially and fully bloomed flowers. The light pink petals reminded him of the popular Korean Plum Liquor tasting drink named Maehwasu.

Taehyung spent another ten minutes leisurely wandering the pathways of the gardens. He stopped to smell the delicate scent of some Magnolia flowers and the fresh aroma of some Gaenari, or Forsythia Koreana, petals. He briefly rested under the old stone structures covered in rows of neatly-maintained green ivy. He crossed the red-railed, wooden bridges over a few ponds and stopped to stare into the calm water below. His entire body, from head to toe, had become relaxed and filled with calmness; the soreness erased from his mind for now.

He made his way over to one of his favourite places in the gardens; a secluded Beot-Kkot tree on top of a small hill. Taehyung lowered his body until he sat with his back against the firm wood of its base. He took a moment to wipe away the remainder of his sweat and bathe in the pure serenity the Korean Gardens fed him. His soul slowly became rejuvenated and replenished after such an intense interaction.

Sparkling brown eyes overlooked the grounds below him. He could see the bloomed yellow Sansuyu trees, the tips of the branches reaching high into the air. The short Royal Azalea shrubs—differing in pink, white and purple—grew in small patches amongst the grounds. And the bright yellow flowers of the Yuchae trees towered over many of the small flowers and shrubs in the far distance. This was home, his home, his safe place.

After he soaked in the soothing sight and sounds for a couple of silent minutes, Taehyung took off his messenger bag and opened it. He fished out his notebook and pen before he pushed the bag to the side. He flipped open the notebook and shifted through the many filled pages until he came to the next empty one about halfway in. A small smile graced his lips as he re-read the last part he had written, remembering why he had started to write that story.

‘His dyed light pink, shoulder-length hair was sprawled out amongst the luscious, green grass. The most carefree smile crossed his chiselled face, the same face that must have been perfectly crafted by god himself. Bright, blue eyes twinkled breathtakingly from the light that shone on us. And when he lazily turned his head towards me, those same breathtaking twinkles in his blue eyes instantly captured my heart from where I, too, laid sprawled out alongside this angel sent to earth.’

Not only two days ago had the most captivating, most stunning, most astonishing stranger walked along the paths of these gardens. The entire time, Taehyung had silently sat and observed him. He had wished he had the confidence to talk to such a breathtaking stranger. But instead, he watched from a distance until he had left the gates, likely to never return again. With that image burnt in his mind, Taehyung continued to write.

‘Neither of us could speak a word as our eyes stared deeply at each other. My heart danced around in my ribcage from the sight before me. It felt like those perfect eyes were discovering every aspect of my soul without needing to hear any words. A shiver ran over my entire body like a river flowing downstream. He was affecting me, had my every nerve on edge, and not a single touch was needed.’

A soft sigh left Taehyung as he imagined the scene in his head. He looked upon the grounds below him and envisioned the stranger and himself, enacting what he had written down near the Koi pond he had first stopped at. An action he’d never dare perform himself, for he was in deep denial. But one in which he could freely write about and not feel guilt since he had long ago convinced himself it was merely for the creative writing course he partook in.

However, his moment of daydreaming was interrupted by three familiar faces swiftly walking through the Korean Gardens. His breath caught in his throat as his eyes widened in fear. Ji-Hoon and two of his lackeys seemed to be heading in a beeline straight toward him. Taehyung forced his eyes down to his notebook, his blank eyes staring at the page, and his mind raced with anxious thoughts. Perhaps Ji-Hoon had sought him out to get revenge for what he had done earlier. Perhaps the leader couldn’t wait until the next time after he was humiliated in front of his group.

“Yah! Flower boy!” angrily boomed Ji-Hoon’s out-of-breath voice as soon as he got within earshot.

Fear-filled eyes snapped up to lock on Ji-Hoon’s angry, contorted, red face. Taehyung grabbed his messenger bag as he hastily stood. He fumbled with the zipper before he shoved his precious notebook and pen away. Before he could even think of running, the three boys had sprinted up to corner him against the trunk of the Beot-Kkot tree.

“Where do you think you’re going, flower boy?” Ji-Hoon breathlessly sang before he clicked his fingers. The boy to Taehyung’s right pounced forward and forcefully snatched his messenger bag. The boy chucked the bag towards the leader, who caught it with a dark smirk on his face. “Why, what do we have here? Huh? Anything important I should know about?”

“There’s nothing in there. Just stop, Ji-Hoon Hyung, please,” Taehyung pitifully pleaded despite knowing his pleas would fall on deaf ears.

“Did you hear that, boys? The queer said please,” mocked Ji-Hoon before breaking out in a laugh alongside his two lackeys.

“Please,” he desperately begged as he took a step forward.

The moment he moved, the two other boys took two threatening steps toward him. Their taller stature left him feeling insignificant and powerless. With his head bowed to hide his fear, he stood still and waited for whatever was to come next. Ji-Hoon and his group had never touched any of his personal artefacts. They had only ever taunted him with words and beat him up. This. . . This was uncharted territory he knew would leave him distraught on a whole new level.

“Do you boys feel like hearing what flower boy has written in his notebook?” asked Ji-Hoon with a vindictive tone.

“Yeah!” the one to the left of Taehyung replied instantly.

“No! Please don’t!” Taehyung pleaded once more with tears that quickly formed in his eyes.

“The most carefree smile crossed his chiselled face, the same face that must have been perfectly crafted by god himself,” Ji-Hoon read aloud in a professor-like tone. “Wow. I was only joking when we called you queer. Didn’t realise you actually were!”

“I’m not,” Taehyung stiffly retorted.

“Your writing begs to differ, flower boy.” Ji-Hoon and his two lackeys laughed. “Listen to this, boys. You’ll never believe what he wrote after that. A shiver ran over my entire body like a river flowing downstream. He was affecting me, had my every nerve on edge, and not a single touch was needed. I don’t know about you boys, but that sounds something a faggot would say, right?”

“Right,” replied the boy on the right.

“One hundred percent something a faggot would say, flower boy,” jeered the boy on the left.

“I’m not gay!” yelled Taehyung as the hot tears that stung his eyes finally fell on his flushed cheeks.

“Sure, keep telling yourself that,” said Ji-Hoon as he rolled his eyes. He lazily flipped through the notebook before he stopped, grabbed a page and ripped it out. “I’ll keep this for another day.”

“Stop!” Taehyung desperately cried as he watched Ji-Hoon pocket his work.

Ji-Hoon ignored his words as he continued to flip through the notebook with a contemplative look on his face. His eyes lit up as he stopped on another page. Again, he ripped the page from the book. Instead of pocketing it as he had done with the previous one, he tore it up into small pieces. The entire time he had an evil smirk plastered on his face as he sprinkled them over the grass.

Each tear ripped Taehyung’s heart apart as the process was repeated with three more pages. Tears steadily streamed down his face while he watched all his hard work over the last year be destroyed in a matter of seconds. A burning heat started to overtake his body as anger settled in. Without a thought, his body lunged forward towards his main tormentor. His sight narrowed with rage, and the only thing on his mind was to stop the emotional abuse Ji-Hoon inflicted upon him.

Two sets of arms harshly gripped him and pushed him back against the tree trunk. Taehyung’s ears rang slightly after the back of his head hit the wood with force, and his already tear-impaired vision became even cloudier. His ears were filled with the sound of paper being torn as he finally let out his first sob ever in front of the group. His breath hitched in his throat before another gut-wrenching sound escaped him.

“Wow boys,” remarked Ji-Hoon with surprise. “I think we finally broke flower boy. After eight long years. . . we, yes, we finally broke our little queer flower boy.”

Taehyung closed his eyes in defeat as he stood pinned to the tree listening to the haunting words and agonising sounds of his work being destroyed. Sobs wracked through his tired body, much like how Ji-Hoon tore through his precious writing. He was essentially witnessing his heart and soul being dismantled before his very tear-filled eyes. And there was not a thing he could do to stop it.

“Huh, who knew that flower boy really liked to write about boys,” mused Ji-Hoon as he stopped to read yet another work from the notebook. “Is anyone else as shocked as I am that flower boy is a queer through and through?”

“I’m not surprised,” spat the boy on the left, his hold on Taehyung’s arms tightening painfully. “I can practically smell the gay rolling off of him.”

“I’m. . . Not. . . Gay. . .” Taehyung managed to force it out in between distraught sobs.

“So you’ve said,” huffed Ji-Hoon with annoyance as he discarded the notebook and bag on the ground behind him. “You’ve said that a million times, yet the evidence is stacking against what you are saying. Just admit you’re gay. There’s nothing wrong with it. It’ll just help me sleep better at night knowing I was right about it all this time.”

“You’re a sick bastard,” whispered Taehyung as he began to control his sobs, his anger bubbling closer to the surface as he stared into cold, brown eyes.

“What did you call me,” harshly whispered Ji-Hoon as he advanced like a hunter on the kill, his eyes dark and his face shrouded in shadows. “Say that again. I dare you.”

“You’re,” despite the shiver of fear that ran down his spine, Taehyung repeated in an angry whisper, “a sick bastard.”

As expected, a punch landed on his stomach a mere second later. Ji-Hoon’s light brown eyes had grown dark with anger. There was a glint of something dangerous that swirled within the brown. It sent a wave of fear through Taehyung’s body as nothing had ever done before. Blow after blow followed, barely a second in between each hit. All he wanted to do was fold in on himself and drop to the ground, but he was held firmly in place by the two boys as they watched their leader go to town with sick smirks on their own faces.

Hot tears rolled down Taehyung’s face the longer the relentless attack went on, impairing his vision. It quickly became a struggle to draw in a decent breath of air. The force of the punches dispelled any air that entered his body, leaving him gasping pathetically. The bark of the Beot-Kkot tree dug painfully into his clothed back and where his arms were pinned against it by the two lackeys. He was sure he’d be left with many bruises, possibly even cuts, by the end of this bashing.

“Get off of him!” a voice suddenly yelled from not far away.

The two sets of hands that had held Taehyung in place withdrew without hesitation. His tired body fell to the ground the instant his weight was no longer being supported. Through his gasping breaths, he heard heavy footsteps rushing in his direction. As Taehyung curled up into a small ball with his hands cradling his tender stomach, he wondered who could have possibly come to his rescue.

Through tear-filled vision, Taehyung managed to distinguish the silhouettes of six men as they sprinted up the small hill. The strangers came to a halt directly in front of Ji-Hoon and his two lackeys. All nine boys stared at one another, their chests heaved from physical exertion and pure adrenaline, and even from where he lay on the ground, he could feel how thick the air was with tension.

“Come on, boys,” Ji-Hoon huffed cockily. After eyeing the strangers up and down, he began to walk away with a smirk. He turned around with a satisfied look and eerily said, “See you next time, flower boy.”

Relief flooded through Taehyung as he simply lay on the ground and watched the trio walk away. But the feeling was short-lived. He was harshly reminded of what had transpired when a piece of torn paper got picked up by the wind and floated towards him. A soft sob left him as he reached a hand out to his precious, destroyed work. He squeezed his eyes shut tightly as more tears flowed down his cheeks. His heart felt like it had been ripped, much like the paper. He had paid the ultimate price for trying to protect himself.

“Hey, are you okay?” a gentle voice asked, followed by footsteps.

Taehyung flinched as a hand tenderly brushed against his arm. He opened his eyes slowly and stared at the person, who was now crouched in front of him. His breath hitched as his eyes landed on a familiar face. The same shoulder-length, pink hair. The same perfectly hand-crafted face. And even though the stranger no longer had the blue contacts, Taehyung could tell they were the same eyes, just now full of worry. He stared in shock at the stranger he had only minutes ago been writing about.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to scare you. Are you okay? Are you hurt?” the most beautiful sounding voice said softly to Taehyung. It was as if the stranger spoke cautiously to not scare him like he was a fragile doe in the wild. “Here, can you sit up?”

The stunning stranger outstretched his hand for Taehyung, who looked directly into those worry-filled, beautiful brown eyes. Hesitantly, he reached out his hand, and with a slight shake, his hand touched the other boy’s warm one. An instant wave of electricity shot through his entire arm. At that moment, Taehyung couldn’t look anywhere but at those captivating brown eyes right in front of his face. The stranger simply stared back at him. Neither boy moved, time around them seemingly frozen.

“Is this your work?” a voice behind the beautiful stranger asked. “Did those boys destroy it?”

Both boys snapped out of their daze as Taehyung was finally helped to be sat up straight. He wiped the dried tear stains with his shirt while he looked at the one who had spoken. The dark blue-haired boy was squatting beside all of the scattered paper. In his hand was a single torn piece, twisting it as he inspected it. Taehyung tried to hold back more tears as he, too, picked up the piece of paper that had drifted towards him.

“Y-Yeah, they ripped up some of my writing,” he said softly with a slight quiver.

“I’m so sorry,” the pink-haired stranger whispered before gently placing his hand on Taehyung’s right shoulder.

The rest of the group stared down at him in a mixture of pity, shock and concern. The one who held the piece of paper began to pick up more of the scattered work. And soon enough, all five of the boys were collecting the torn paper while Taehyung and the pink-haired boy sadly watched on. The cool spring breeze made the task difficult for the group; in any other circumstance, Taehyung would have laughed at the comedic scene before him.

His heart painfully dropped. It felt like it had been split between the sorrow of his tarnished work, the uneasiness and fear of Ji-Hoon returning to finish what he had started, and the gratitude for these kind strangers. He felt like he could cry from pain. But, at the same time, he felt like he could cry from gratitude. He had been through so many different emotions in the past hour that he couldn’t even begin processing the events from earlier.

Tears began to fall rapidly, no matter how hard he tried to hold them back. Ashamed to cry in front of complete strangers, Taehyung buried his face in his hands as he felt a soft squeeze from the pretty pink-haired boy beside him. It had all been too much. Years of torment led him to this moment, bruised-bodied and broken-hearted. He was at the mercy of these strangers, all of his trust fully in their hands.

“Hey, it’s okay,” the sweet voice quietly coaxed him to calm down. “You’re safe now. We are here. Those boys are gone.”

Hearing those words strangely comforted Taehyung. Through the burning pain in his lungs, he forced himself to take long, deep breaths. With the back of his sleeves, he wiped his weeping eyes and the fresh tear tracks. A shiver ran down his spine as the boy beside him slowly dragged his hand up and down his back. His red, puffy eyes finally turned to the side to lock eyes with the sad brown eyes.

“Aw, you poor thing.” The boy crouched beside him shifted to kneel instead. “Come here.”

With one knee behind Taehyung’s back and one knee touching the side of his leg, the pink-haired boy used his free hand to wipe the remaining tears away. The hand that had been caressing his back moved to the back of Taehyung’s neck and gently pulled him against the firm chest. Two strong arms wrapped around him as his head nestled under the boy’s chin.

“Everything will be okay, I promise,” whispered the other boy as he tightened his hold.

“Let the boy breathe, Jimin,” an amused voice said before another equally handsome, brown-haired boy squatted before him. In his hands were Taehyung’s notebook and black messenger bag.

“He needs a hug, Jungkook. Leave us be for a second,” said the boy that Taehyung now knew as Jimin.

“Of course.” The handsome Jungkook warmly smiled directly at Taehyung. “Just give me a signal, and I will drag him off of you.”

Taehyung smiled at the wink directed his way and couldn’t help the small chuckle that left him as Jimin reached over to playfully hit Jungkook on the arm. At that moment, as he watched the two strangers interact, an intense wave of familiarity and calmness washed down his entire body. Chills ran over him, causing goosebumps to rise. The hair on the back of his neck and his arms stood straight.

“You’re such a brat,” huffed Jimin in feigned annoyance before he turned his attention back to Taehyung. Jimin wrapped his arm around him once more and rested his cheek upon the top of Taehyung’s soft, turquoise hair. “Don’t mind him. He’s just jealous.”

“Am not.” Jungkook rolled his eyes, and a fond smile formed on his face, a twinkle in both his brown eyes.

“Would you two behave for a few minutes?” sighed the dark blue-haired male as he walked up to the trio. In his hands were every piece of paper the group had collected. “Sorry about them. Here, we managed to grab all of it.”

With hands held out, the new male carefully transferred the torn paper into Taehyung’s shaking hands. Jimin pulled back from him slightly and squeezed his shoulders as a supportive gesture. Even though sorrow filled him as he looked at his work, he could feel a strong collective sense of agony from all six strangers at what had transpired. And knowing that he wasn’t alone helped Taehyung bravely reach forward and slide the pieces of paper into his messenger bag Jungkook had opened for him.

A soft and shaky exhale left his lips as he watched the pieces fall into the dark abyss of his bag. It would never be the same. He could never rewrite the ruined work in the exact same way. His precious work that he’d spent hours on, while not entirely lost, would be forever lost in its original form. And that was what hurt him the most. Not the physical or mental abuse those boys had subjected him to but the emotional abuse of destroying something so valuable and dear to him.

“What’s your name?” the dark blue-haired boy softly asked, his eyes full of pity.

“Taehyung. I’m Kim Taehyung,” he quietly replied as tears brimmed in his eyes. It was hard for him to take his eyes off of his bag.

“I’m sorry about everything that has happened to you, Taehyung. But it’s nice to meet you. My name is Kim Namjoon,” the dark blue-haired boy said before outstretching his hand.

“Thank you,” said Taehyung as he reached forward and took the offered hand. “Thank you all for your help.”

“No need to thank us.” Jimin smiled as he pulled back, stood up and stretched his arms. “I’m just glad you are okay.”

“Y-Yeah,” whispered Taehyung as he sadly looked down at his lap.

“Can you stand up? Do you need a hand?” asked Jungkook with a slight tilt of his head.

“I’ll be fine,” Taehyung reassured before he hoisted himself up from the ground and brushed off the grass from his pants and shirt. “Thank you again.”

“It’s okay, honestly,” Namjoon said as he and Jungkook stood. The silence continued as Jungkook simply stared at Taehyung. Namjoon rolled his eyes and shoved Jungkook slightly to prompt him to hand over the bag and notebook. “Jungkook, give Taehyung his stuff back.”

“Ah, sorry, here you go.” Jungkook blushed as he handed the two items over.

“Thanks.” Taehyung bowed as he grabbed his stuff.

“Would you like to come and hang out with us for a little?” asked Namjoon kindly.

Taehyung blushed from the kind offer. “Oh, no. No, I don’t want to impose on you guys. I should probably go home and get some rest.”

“Of course, we understand.” Namjoon nodded and smiled in return.

“It was nice to meet you all. Thanks for helping me. I hope you all have a good day,” Taehyung respectfully said as he bowed profusely despite how sore his body felt from the earlier onslaught of abuse.

Taehyung smiled as all six of the boys bowed in return. He slung his bag around his shoulder, safely stored his notebook away and turned around after he directed one last smile toward both Jimin and Jungkook. He had only made it a few steps away from the kind group of strangers when he froze mid-step in complete and utter fear. His body felt numb, his breath left his entire being, and his eyes widened at the sight that had caused such a powerful reaction from him.

“Wait!” cried out one of the males who hadn’t spoken yet.

“What’s wrong, Jin Hyung?” another unfamiliar voice asked.

“Taehyung, those are the boys who hurt you, right?” the voice supposedly belonging to Jin asked.

Still frozen in fear, all Taehyung could do was nod in response. Jimin and Jungkook immediately walked over to him and placed each one of their arms around him. His body was forcibly turned around by the two, but his eyes were still locked on the sight of Lee Ji-Hoon and his two boys as they smirked up at him from afar. A wave of dread washed over his body, causing him to shiver slightly. The memory of the attack was still so fresh in his mind.

“Ignore them,” whispered Jimin as the two led Taehyung back to the group. He squeezed Taehyung’s arm tightly as a silent reminder they were there for him. “You’re okay. You are with us.”

“O-Okay, yeah,” Taehyung whispered. Tears filled his eyes again. “If that’s alright with you all, can I stay with you?”

“Absolutely! Of course!” said Jungkook before anyone else could reassure Taehyung.

“We were just about to sit at one of the Koi ponds before we saw what was happening to you,” Jin said as he walked closer, coming to a stop beside Namjoon. “Would you like to go hang out with us there? Get comfortable and rest for a bit?”

“Sure.” Taehyung numbly nodded as he fought away the tears.

The two arms around him stayed in place as the group of seven began to walk down the hill. Namjoon and Jin silently led the way, while the rest followed, equally as quiet. Lucky for Taehyung, his body was being guided by Jungkook and Jimin as his mind was far from the present moment. He was completely consumed by the faces of his tormentors, their image carved and burned into every dark crevasse of his mind, not a single place unmarked by their terror.

“Hey, I’m Jung Hoseok,” a voice said suddenly, bringing Taehyung out of his mind and back to the present. “It’s nice to meet you, Taehyung.”

To his left, walking beside Jimin, was a blond-haired boy with a bright smile and beautiful brown eyes. When Taehyung looked into Hoseok’s eyes, he felt an instant connection with him. Within those sparkling brown eyes, he could see the genuineness and caring nature of the male plain as day. The longer he looked into those eyes, the more he felt safe. The more he felt protected. The more he felt he could say anything to this stranger without a single judgment ever being made.

“Likewise,” Taehyung said.

“I know this may be a bit of a sore spot right now,” Hoseok hesitantly began to say with a slightly sheepish look, “but I was wondering what you were writing? I saw a few words as we were cleaning it up, and I have to admit, I am intrigued.”

“Oh.” To say Taehyung had been taken aback by the question would likely be the most accurate statement anyone could ever make. “Well, I mainly write short stories, just about anything that comes to mind really. Inspiration finds me easily here in the serenity of these gardens. It’s always so peaceful and quiet. Well, it was until today.”

“I’m so sorry that happened. I could only begin to imagine what you’re going through. I was also wondering if you’d let us read some of your work that wasn’t damaged? A few of us write as a hobby, and some of what I saw seemed so captivating.”

“Uh, sure. I guess that would be okay,” Taehyung replied as a light pink colour stained his cheeks.

“You’re so cute when you blush,” cooed Jimin as he removed his arm that had been protectively holding Taehyung and reached up to pinch his rosy cheek.

“So cute,” agreed Jungkook as he reached up and ruffled Taehyung’s turquoise-coloured hair.

“T-Thank you,” Taehyung said as he hung his head from the embarrassment of the attention. He could practically feel his cheeks burning as they continued to walk in silence. Both arms returned to protectively hold and guide him.

The group came to a stop moments later on the grass beside the very same Koi pond Taehyung had admired after he first stepped inside the walls of his sanctuary. And as he looked back on how much things had changed since he was last there an hour ago, it sent a wave of gratitude coursing through him. He had met two clingy strangers who gushed over him, three down-to-earth males, and one quiet, black-haired, unnamed boy whose help did not go unnoticed or unappreciated.

As the group stood still, overlooking the Koi pond, Taehyung finally felt safe and protected for the first time in a very long time. While some uncertainty and awkwardness still hung in the air from Taehyung’s side of things, he could already feel the acceptance and warmth from the six boys surrounding him. Part of him dreaded to think what would come of him once he ultimately left their company, likely to never cross paths with them again. Surely he would continue to fall victim to Lee Ji-Hoon and his lackeys.

“Let’s get comfortable,” Namjoon said with a content sigh, already moving to sit on the ground. “I’m sure you are tired and sore, right, Taehyung?”

“Yeah,” he quietly said, nodding and sitting.

The group had formed a small semi-circle as they settled down. Namjoon sat at the end, closest to the Beot-Kkot tree that loomed above the pond, with Jin sitting close beside him. The black-haired boy sat next to Jin with Hoseok on his other side. Taehyung sat between Hoseok and Jimin, with Jungkook completing the semi-circle next to Jimin. Some of the boys remained cross-legged, while others leant back on their palms and stretched their legs out in front of them.

As Taehyung took off his messenger bag, a light pink petal from the Beot-Kkot tree caught his attention. The petal mesmerisingly drifted from side to side as the gentle spring breeze brought it to rest in the middle of the group. A small smile graced his lips as he fondly looked at the lone petal surrounded by such kind-hearted and genuine people. He amused himself with his thoughts, likening himself to a flower petal, despite the hatred behind the taunt of being called ‘Flower Boy’ by his bullies. Perhaps he could reclaim and reinvent the meaning of the nickname.

“So, has that ever happened to you before? Those boys ganging up on you? It sounded like they knew you,” Jimin asked after the silence stretched a little too long for his liking.

“Yeah, I know them pretty well.” Taehyung sighed as he looked at his lap in shame. “Ever since high school, they have been targeting me. You only saw three of them, but there are usually eight. Ji-Hoon, the one who spoke, is like their leader. A-And the reason those three came after me was I punched Ji-Hoon earlier to escape from all eight boys on my way here.”

“Jesus, you mean they had already ganged up on you before we saw what those three were doing to you?” asked Hoseok with shock written over his face.

“Yes,” whispered Taehyung with a slight nod, his eyes never leaving his lap.

“You must be purple and blue all over, right? Are you in pain?” Jimin shifted closer and swept some of the turquoise strands from Taehyung’s face.

“I’ll be fine. I always am,” he said, his voice shaking. He tried so hard to fight back the tears as he sent a sad smile toward Jimin, unconsciously leaning into the hand that still cupped his face. “Today, they took it to a whole new level by touching my notebook. That is the thing I worry will be hard to recover from. The physical pain does not equate to how unbearable the emotional pain is.”

“And has anyone ever stood up for you? At school? Out in the streets?” asked Hoseok. He, like the others, was afraid they already knew the answer to that question.

“No, never. I’ve never had friends. I haven’t even had acquaintances, if you could believe that.” Taehyung laughed at how pitiful he sounded, even to his own ears. “No, you guys are the first people to ever step in and help me.”

“I’m so sorry. That’s horrible. You shouldn’t have to go through that.” Sorrow laced Jungkook’s quiet voice as he looked at him with sad, brown eyes.

“Don’t feel sorry for me. It’s okay. That’s just the way my life is.”

“Whoa, you’re so strong,” whispered Jimin, his eyes shining with admiration as he reached forward and caressed the back of Taehyung’s neck.

“I wouldn’t say that but thank you,” he shyly whispered, the earlier blush returning in all its glory.

“No, Jimin is right. You are really strong,” Namjoon said as he watched the interaction with hidden interest.

Taehyung blushed harder at the attention. He hung his head as he heard them chuckle from his evident signs of embarrassment. Beside him, Jimin cooed and shuffled over so that they sat side-by-side with their hips touching. The pink-haired boy slung his arm around his shoulders and quietly cooed at him.

“Do you come here often?” curiously asked Jin to break the silence.

Taehyung nodded in response. “Almost daily.”

“Wow! Really?” Namjoon couldn’t believe his ears. “Well, it was lucky Jimin brought us here today. Even if some,” the blue-haired boy shot a look towards the unfazed black-haired boy, “weren’t so keen on visiting. Jimin only found this beautiful place two days ago.”

“Yeah, so lucky.” Taehyung nervously gulped as he looked at the ground, guilt creeping up behind him at having known this information already.

“Since you have never had a friend, do you always spend your time by yourself here?” Hoseok asked as he cocked his head to the side.

“Yes,” he answered with a strained smile.

“Do you ever explore other places?” asked Jin with a frown. “I know you must like it here, but there are so many more places to visit and hang out in this town.”

“No, not really. I like to stick to this place. I call it my home away from home. I’ve seen this place grow and change over the years. I’ve always felt at ease and safe here, so why bother going elsewhere? Especially when I’ll be alone, anyway.”

“Well, from now on, I’m going to drag you to new places,” Jimin said, pulling Taehyung closer. “And you can drag me here any time you’d like.”

“Yeah, come hang out with us,” Namjoon said. “At least promise you’ll meet with us five times at five different places. If you get sick of us, we’ll leave you alone.”

“You just seem like a nice guy, and we don’t want you getting left behind or forgotten, especially with people like that Ji-Honey guy or whatever around. It would hurt us to know something bad happened to you,” Jin sincerely said, his face also sporting a genuine smile.

“I-I promise.” Taehyung relented to the pressure, a part of him swelling with pride for being brave and trying new things out of his comfort zone.

“You won’t regret it. I promise you,” Jimin whispered as he briefly squeezed his arm tighter around Taehyung, then settled down with his head resting lightly upon Taehyung’s shoulders.

The pair stayed in that position as the group around them began to talk amongst themselves. Taehyung blushed at the constant physical contact between himself and Jimin. It felt oddly satisfying to have someone to actually lean on instead of usually being by himself 24/7. His light brown eyes scanned the group, and he frowned as his eyes landed on something he hadn’t noticed. His heart skipped a beat before it began to pound wildly in his chest.

“Do you mind if I look at some of your work?” Jimin suddenly asked, startling him from his trance.

“Huh?” Taehyung asked as he turned his wide eyes to Jimin. “Oh, yeah. Sure.”

As Taehyung reached into his messenger bag and fished around for his notebook, his eyes couldn’t help but travel back to the two boys holding hands and quietly gazing into each other’s eyes. His fingers brushed against the familiar material before he grabbed it and pulled it out. Almost reluctantly, he handed his precious work over to the angelic pink-haired boy.

“Jungkookie, come here,” Jimin softly called as he patted the ground beside him.

Taehyung barely registered what was happening beside him as his eyes stayed glued to Namjoon and Jin. The two sat with their hands interlocked, leant against one another, as they deeply stared into each other’s eyes. His heart loudly pumped in his ears, his mouth hung open slightly in wonderment, and his eyes were wide with surprise.

“I know, gross, right?” The black-haired boy tsked, which brought Taehyung out of his daze. “Yah! You two, knock it off! No one here wants to see your disgusting public displays of affection.”

“Oh, shut up, Yoongi!” Jin rolled his eyes as he turned to glare at the black-haired boy. “If it was you and Hoseok, you’d rip my ear off for even saying such a thing. Treat your Hyung with respect and mind your own business. I’m sure your boyfriend would love some attention instead.”

“Jin Hyung has a point, Yoongi.” Hoseok chuckled as he shifted sideways and laid down, his head falling on the black-haired boy’s lap. “Pay attention to your boyfriend.”

“Brat,” huffed Yoongi in annoyance as he tilted his head towards the sky, but nonetheless, reached a hand forward and softly stroked Hoseok’s hair.

“Sorry, you probably weren’t expecting that,” Namjoon said with a sheepish smile as he looked over at the red-faced Taehyung. “Jin and I are in a relationship. So are Yoongi and Hoseok. And Jimin and Jungkook. Hopefully, that won’t be a problem.”

“Oh,” said Taehyung, his heart dropping as he listened.

Why did his heart drop at the new information? Why should Taehyung care about a stranger and who they were dating? He shouldn’t. And that was the problem because he did care. His heart felt like it had been broken all over again as he looked at the pair beside him. Both Jimin and Jungkook looked up at the mention of their names.

“Huh? What was that, Hyung?” Jimin asked with a tilt of his head.

“I was just telling Taehyung how we are all in relationships. He looked surprised when he saw Jin and me,” Namjoon explained to the pink-haired boy.

“Ah, okay.” Jimin smiled before leaning towards Taehyung, his lips hovering inches away from Taehyung’s ear, his hot breath glossing over the sensitive skin. “Those four are in exclusive relationships, whereas Jungkookie and I are open to. . . shall we say. . . others?”

Taehyung watched with a surprised expression as Jimin pulled back with a grin. His face flushed even more when he witnessed before his very own eyes as the other boy confidently sent a wink his way and merely turned around to keep reading through the notebook. He continued to stare at the pair beside him as he processed the information and his confusing feelings.

His heart shouldn’t be beating a million miles an hour from those words sinfully whispered to him. But it was. He shouldn’t have had goosebumps when he felt the warm breath tickle his neck. But he had. His mind shouldn’t have gone blank after the flirtatious act directed at him by another male. But it had. Yes, he had written about such things in his notebook, such things including the stranger now known as Jimin, but that didn’t mean it reflected how he truly felt. Right?

“Pink hair and blue eyes,” Jungkook mused, catching Taehyung’s attention.

Panic flooded him as he helplessly watched Jimin and Jungkook read the very last story written in his notebook. Sweat formed on his hands as his body started to burn with an intense heat. The seconds seemed to drag on before the pair finally lifted their eyes to him. Both had identical, knowing smiles on their faces before Jimin reached out to him and engulfed him in an enormous hug that ended up pushing them both to the ground.

Taehyung laid flat on his back, his breath taken by the stunning silhouetted angel that hovered above him. Jimin shifted the messy turquoise hair out of Taehyung’s eyes. His fingers lightly traced the sides of his face before his small hand cupped the bright, rosy cheeks. Unconsciously, Taehyung’s tense body relaxed at the soft, warm touch, his eyes fluttering close briefly.

“Don’t hurt him,” Jin said from somewhere to the side, yet the voice sounded far from Taehyung.

“I would never hurt him,” whispered Jimin, his brown eyes roaming Taehyung’s face, making him feel bare and exposed. “I would never hurt something so beautiful.”

Time slowed as the gap between Taehyung and Jimin seemed to grow smaller. His heartbeat rapidly pounded in his chest as he stared between those intoxicating eyes and pink, plump lips. His eyes fluttered as the distance was closed, and the softest touch he had ever felt grazed his right cheek. Electricity shot through him at the contact, causing him to quietly gasp. He didn’t dare open his eyes as he felt movement near him, and suddenly, the second pair of lips brushed against his left cheek.

“Absolutely perfect.” Taehyung barely registered Jimin’s whisper as he felt him lean back, the weight on top of him disappearing.

“Utterly precious.” The second pair of lips withdrew, and he heard shuffling nearby.

Two different hands grabbed onto each of his hands. Jimin and Jungkook squeezed his hands, coaxing Taehyung to sit up. But they didn’t know he was currently in a state of utter bliss. Everything, for the first time, felt right. Nothing about what had just happened felt wrong or dirty. At that moment, he came to the realisation he was indeed gay.

All of Taehyung’s suppressed emotions and thoughts broke free as he accepted who he was. All his internalised homophobia slowly faded into the background, the lingering electricity a stark reminder of how right it was. It was okay that he liked boys. It was okay that he wrote about boys. It was okay that these two male strangers made him feel flustered. Taehyung knew it would be okay now that he had come to accept himself.

“Are you okay? Did they hurt you?” Namjoon’s concerned voice floated to his now crystal clear hearing.

“I’m fine.” Taehyung opened his eyes and sat up slowly with help from the two beautiful people sitting on either side of him. A small smile spread on his face as he looked around the worried looks of the group. “I’m great.”

“I think we found a keeper.” Jimin hugged Taehyung tightly, while Jungkook nodded and rubbed Taehyung’s back soothingly. “He’s so cute, Kookie!”

The group laughed and relaxed back into what they had been doing before the small antics of the trio. Taehyung couldn’t help but bathe in the serenity. As he sat in the arms of the two clingy strangers, staring ahead at the Koi pond, he reminisced on how drastically his life had changed thanks to today. He had overcome some fears of his. He had stood up for himself. He had lost, and more importantly, he had gained.

Another stray petal from the Beot-Kkot tree fell towards the ground, and something suddenly clicked in place for Taehyung as he watched it fall—almost sending him straight into tears. Here, in this very spot, had been the place his grandparents had met. Here, in this very spot, had been the place his grandparents shared their last smiles together and watched the sunset for the last time. He felt the raw emotions resurface from that beautiful night and couldn’t help the happy tear that fell down his cheek as he realised one more thing.

Because it was here, in these very gardens, that he had been saved by these six kind-hearted men. It was here, in this very spot, that he found what he hoped would be lifelong friendships. It was here, in this very spot, that he came to accept who he was and was always meant to be, no longer afraid of the taunts. And it was here, in this very spot, that Taehyung may have found something more than friends for the first time.

And if this wasn’t destiny and fate, just like his grandparents, he didn’t know what was.

The university building is huge.

Well, technically, it’s several buildings clumped together in one area, but that’s just another reason it looks so intimidating. The architecture looks like it’s hundreds of years old. If I had to guess, I’d place it around the 2010s mark.

Of course, it’s only objectively intimidating. As I said before, I’m not scared of schools. Even so, my fingers involuntarily tighten over my bag straps as I make my way up the stone steps leading to the central building. My eyes dart over unfamiliar faces. Occasionally, they glance back as they pass by.

“Excuse me?” I ask as I catch sight of a girl in a large pink hoodie.

She turns to face me.

It’s hard to describe comforting faces, but there’s just something in the way her features are arranged that immediately makes me feel at ease.

“I was just wondering if you know where English Lit is,” I carry on, looking somewhere to the left of her face.

From the edge of my vision, I see her smile. “I’m just going there now. I’ll take you,” she offers, and I trail after her like a lost puppy.

The girl doesn’t really say anything else. After the first minute, an awkward silence begins to descend on us. I guess she’s a quiet person then.

“Thanks for taking me,” I say. “I’m Jo.”

“I’m Orla.”

More silence.

Engaging her in conversation proved to be impossible over my next four tries, and I eventually give up. Luckily, that’s when we reach the classroom.

People are dotted around the room in small groups: unpacking bags, taking out folders and rummaging for pens. There’s no professor in sight.

I take a seat in the front row, dropping my new notebook on the table with a heavy thud. Loose stationery follows—I haven’t fully committed myself to ordering a pencil case yet. That’s the soft way of saying I couldn’t be bothered, by the way.

Almost immediately after I’m settled, the professor walks in. The first ten minutes of the lesson are really great, and barely anybody takes notice of my presence at all until the professor decides to suddenly announce me.

“—so I think you guys should carry on working on the presentation now. Joyce, these are all lovely students, so I’ll let you go with any existing group,” she says, looking over.

“Thank you. Also, just Jo is okay.”

It’s silent for a second, and then the noise gradually starts to build up as the class starts to ease their voices up to speaking volume. I stare at the clusters of people seated together behind me, lost.

“Jo!” A girl with a loud voice and an equally chaotic graphic T-shirt waves me over. “You can do it with us.”

I shoot her a grateful look, relieved the choice is out of my hands now. How am I supposed to choose between a bunch of people I barely know, anyway?

Sweeping my books and bags into my hands, I stumble to sit next to the girl and the rest of her group. She’s seated next to a brown-haired guy with soft eyes and prominent dimples. Next to Dimples is another boy with wide, rounded eyes.

“I’m Kay,” the girl says, brushing her bubblegum-coloured hair out of her eyes. It reminds me of Orla’s sweater. She points to Dimples. “That’s Namjoon, and the one next to him is Aamir.”

The wide-eyed boy, Aamir, gives me a small nod as Kay introduces him.

“Nice to meet you,” I mumble, letting my armful of books and pens spill over the desk.

Introductions over, the four of us get to work. All three of my project partners turn out to be diligent, and we get along quite well. Namjoon pulls up an organised to-do list on his laptop and hands out our tasks.

We’re in a controlled silence the whole time, occasionally broken by one of us sparking up a debate over a quotation or Kay driving the conversation completely off track.

Aamir turns out to be almost as loud as Kay, while I discover that the seemingly calm Namjoon has a sense of humour just as outrageous as that of the other two group members.

None of the rest of my classes even compare after that. At lunchtime, I bump into Kay again, and she whisks me off into the town centre for a bubble tea before my graphic design course. Naturally, our conversation eventually turns to the Program.

We’re sitting on the steps together, staring out across the school grounds. Every once in a while, a couple of people hurry past us into the building, but other than that it’s quite peaceful.

“Are you excited?” asks Kay, and it takes me a second to realise that we’re still discussing soulmates.

“I think so. It’s so weird that this is finally happening.” I look back at her. “It’s hard to believe that we actually have a perfect match, you know?”

Kay groans. “Tell me about it. . .”

“You don’t sound too happy about it.”

She stares into her bubble tea and sighs. Shaking her head, Kay stands up. “Ah, it’s just, whatever. You should go to your graphic design class or whatever it was.”

I’m left sitting there on my own, the near-finished bubble tea balanced on my lap. My stomach flips uneasily, and I no longer feel like I can finish the drink but take it to my next class anyway. I almost feel bad for speaking with such a blunt tone earlier.

All in all, the soulmate thing sounds pretty great to me, but not everyone sees it that way. Before turning 21 and receiving a perfect match, most people will still date anyway. It results in a lot of pre-Project heartbreak. A rare few couples disregard their soulmates altogether to stay in their previous relationships. It’s most common in celebrity circles, though. It’s not hard to imagine the amount of media attention a famous, unmatched couple is capable of attracting.

I’m not one of those people who held back their whole life, but I’ve certainly never been in love before either. In a way, it’s something of a relief. Loving before 21 is guaranteed heartbreak. Unless you’re in one of those chick flicks where a couple is so destined to be together that they turn out to be soulmates in the end. Statistically, there’s less than a 0.0001 percent chance of that happening. I might have looked it up a few times as a teenager.

I barely register how lost in my thoughts I was until I realise it’s five minutes past the start of the lesson. Although it’s futile, my reaction is immediate, and I dash off in some random direction to try and find my way to my class.

By the end of the day, I’m thoroughly exhausted and can’t get home soon enough. So, of course, it’s at the exact moment I’ve almost unlocked the front door of my apartment that Taehyung drags himself up the Staircase of Eternal Suffering.

“Neighbour!” he shouts, raising a hand to wave before stopping short.

I look up, my hand still on the key that has inconveniently become stuck in the door again. “Hello.”

“I just realised,” he says in an embarrassed tone, “I never asked you what your name is.”

“I’m Jo,” I reply. A small smile threatens the corners of my lips.

Taehyung isn’t as held back and grins as he unlocks his own front door. “Well, then it’s nice to meet you again, Jo.”

I guess not all of my neighbours are freaking rude.

When the door to my apartment finally swings open, I hardly notice the fact that the smile hasn’t left my face yet.

His first memory was of darkness.

A steady stream of water drizzled, drizzled, drizzled—uneven and arbitrary, somewhere far yet close, adding to that ever-growing melody echoing through the small cellar. He could not tell where the sound came from, but after years of listening to those haunted hymns, he had learned to accept it.

Some days, the melodies were loud. If he had to describe the screams of hell, his mind would immediately drift to those sounds: gnarly, pointed, and grating, almost like the devilish chirps of a cuckoo tainted with the darkness of its heart.

On other days, they were soft, gentle like a warm greeting, a homecoming. These were the best days. The darkness would thin as an invisible blanket of security wrapped around him. There was still no light, but he did not need one. Security was hope in and of itself.

The worst days were the ones of deafening silence because all they brought were great oceans of despair. He would drown in them, gasping for breath, stretching his chin above the unforgiving waves, screaming, mercy, mercy, mercy. . .

The silence never showed pity, not until the melodies returned, but that was fine. Like everything else, he had learned to accept it. 

No matter what day it was or how horrible he felt, his world was limited to the cellar. He often wondered what it was like outside, to fly like the melodies cursing his life, to stretch his legs and run farther and farther and farther, to open his eyes to a heaven of sun and light. Free. Open. Unchained.

As time passed, he nearly forgot everything about the outside world, the fragmented memories slipping like sand through his fingers, but that was fine, too. His brain might not remember, but his body did. He could still taste the fresh air on his tongue, hear the howls of the whistling breeze in his ears, picture blurry fields behind his eyelids, feel the rough wheat under his fingers, and smell the aroma of flowers flaring in his nostrils. 

He remembered indeed, and he always would. No matter how low he sank, how much he was debased, he would remember. And that was all he needed.

* * *

In his small world, there was a door. Sometimes, it opened; most of the time, it didn’t. But when it did, she came: his mother.

He had loved her once when the tides were low and the sun high, when the air rang with laughter and the songs of the passerines, when a family of four lived happily in their secluded cottage in the woods. But where there once lived four, now lived three, two, one, until only vestiges of the past remained.

He had loved her once, but those days, those soft eyes full of love, were so far away—and further still when the first whips came. Then the next. Then some more. Years of this treatment taught him not to ask for a reason, but he still wondered between his screams and pained sobs. 

His father had abandoned them for another woman, and his sister had passed away when their poverty could not save them from starvation. He could still feel the mourning, the desolation, but beneath all that burned a great, raging inferno. 

Anger. It slithered into their cottage like a demonic snake from the ancient tales he had heard as a child, and when it consumed his mother, she no longer regarded him with soft eyes of love. It was that anger that brought him here, not his mother, who dragged him by his hair, shoved him into the cellar, and blamed him for his father’s departure. Who visited daily only to scorn, whip, and curse him.

It was not his mother’s fault. That was his truth, an axiom of sorts, the only thread holding him over the edge of insanity. It was the influence of evil spirits, not his mother. Never her.

Crimson pooled under his limp body, joining the other layers of congealed blood flaking over the floorboards. He was still breathing to his surprise. That only filled him with disappointment.

When his mother left, trailing the red end of her lash through the blood, he listened to the melodies and recalled memories of the outside world. But today, they were not enough to ease the daggers impaling his heart.

* * *

He did not know when it started, but it was there. That was all that mattered.

Days passed, or years—time was relative with no way to measure it. But sometime between then and now, a feeling he could only describe as discontentment began to swell in his heart like bruised flesh beaten purple.

He never acted on it, no. But every time he felt the unforgiving ends of his mother’s lash sink into his inflamed flesh, it manifested in small gestures. A twitching finger. A cold glare. A shaky huff. The more it expanded, the further it rose, higher and higher, like a guillotine ascending towards the heavens. And like all things, gravity inevitably brought it crashing down.

It happened when the routine shattered, when his mother, instead of whipping him, wrapped her hands around his neck and squeezed—harder and harder until breathing was a luxury of the past.

It came to him then—discontentment. It permeated his senses, sent his blood rushing forward and backward at once, and blinded him with the instinctive urge to run away, to beat his mother, to breathe. Then, the guillotine fell. He did not want to die.

Why was she doing this? He did not know, but still, he kicked and punched and scratched and screamed. All he knew was that she—his poor, lonely mother—planned to kill him, so he hit her, again and again, to drive it home. He did not want to die.

His attacks were futile, so in a desperate last-ditch effort, he shoved his thumbs into his mother’s eye sockets until her wails reverberated in his ears, until blood dripped onto his cheeks. Kicking her away, he dashed through the door and sprinted as fast as his pubescent legs allowed.

Up the stairs, past each turn, he ran for his dear life as adrenaline singing in his veins addled his brain. Those wretched melodies dogged his heels, crescendoing like a climax of a blaring symphony until he finally burst out of a second door. Suddenly, the world became silent. 

He found himself in a familiar kitchen, only that three pairs of wide eyes stared at him. A father, daughter, and son preparing dinner. Under the scrutiny, he became more aware of the blood staining his bare skin, the grime greasing his matted hair, but in his shock, he could not bring himself to care.

He looked around. Same table. Same kitchen. Same cottage. But different people. A terrible twist of fate. Jamais vu. He shook his head, taking a hesitant step back when his mother emerged from the depths of the cellar behind him, her eyes closed and her cheeks bloodied with scarlet tears. 

“Come here, boy!” she screamed. “Come here right now!”

Words were on his tongue, but they refused to leave his gaping mouth. All he could let out were inhuman croaks and sobs. Quiet remnants of the melodies played in the far background, nearing every passing second. He was screeching like a dying bird, tearing out his hair, shouting his broken axiom that was no longer true. 

There was no evil spirit to blame. It was his mother’s fault. It always was. At that moment, the only thread holding him over the edge snapped, and he fell into the abyss of insanity. The loud songs defeaned him to the commotion and muted cries. 

He wanted them all dead, wanted her dead.

Letting out a wail akin to a battle cry, he smacked everything off the table. Cutlery and plates shattered, and soup spilled over the wooden floors.

Whore.

He fought against the hands threatening to restrain him, snatched a knife from the ground, and stabbed away, sinking the metal tip into the soft skin of whoever was in front of him.

Wretch.

As he destroyed whatever lay in his path, he stumbled upon burning coals in a hearth. Without hesitation, he grabbed handfuls of them and threw them all over the ground, the straw, the wood. 

Psychopath.

Before anyone could stop him, he flung himself at his mother with his knife in both hands and slashed at her face until she was unrecognizable. Smoke from the crackling flames filled the air. Panting and coughing, he crawled out of the burning cottage and away to the nearby forest, where he propped himself up against a tree.

Letting go of his knife, he watched as the foundations trembled and the cottage roof collapsed. All was quiet save for the popping of wood. As he saw the flames burn bright under the setting sun, the thrill of adrenaline faded along with the discontentment searing his heart.

After a long while, he found himself at peace, and through his tears, he could not help but laugh.

* * *

On the road, he met a wayfaring family, lords from the neighboring town of Toulouse. They were a generous bunch, so much so that they took pity on him and offered him food and shelter. Coincidentally, they had a son—young, about the same age and height. 

His name was René Devereaux. It was a lovely name, they said. A lovely name indeed.

* * *

The boy who was once nameless adopted the persona of René Devereaux with ease. The townsfolk adored René, whispered about the tragic loss of his family to the hands of a murderer but appreciated his strength and benevolence nonetheless.

As the years passed, the townsfolk raised René like their own, letting him flourish along with the prosperity of Toulouse. They loved him even on days when the sky was gray, even when he tripped along his path and failed to carry out his duties, and even when he grew ugly as a blue beard covered his face.

The townsfolk called it part of the misfortune that stole his family. René knew it was punishment for his sins.

Despite that, they praised him for the riches his great fortune bestowed upon the town and gifted him a maiden when he was fully grown with broad shoulders, a tall frame, and a blue beard. 

She was as handsome as he was hideous, but his wealth bridged every disparity. They lived lavishly together, and though they were not merry all the time, for once, René thought he could finally put behind the shadows of the past and settle. 

If only he had noticed the signs sooner.

* * *

His wife was, no doubt, a whore.

The way she smiled at other men, the late nights spent dancing at parties, the total disregard for the needs of her husband. Everything about her was reminiscent of his mother, unsightly for a woman. A lesser man would not notice. René was a lesser man, and he hated himself for it.

It was a quiet night, the stars ablaze in the sky, beaming through the glass windows. He had left Toulouse after telling his wife he was obligated to visit Montauban in the north for business, but instead of the promised six weeks, he returned home after four.

Darkness greeted him like an old friend, swallowing him as he ascended the steps to his chambers. He did not know what to expect, but when he saw candlelight dancing beneath the doorsill and across the ground like wild flames, the beginnings of those melodies he had banished long ago began to sound once more. 

Slowly, he opened the door and peeked inside the room, only to find two people sharing a bed: his wife and another man. Same bed. Same room. Same house. But different people. How far would his wretched fate test him?

Those melodies buzzed like provoked bees bouncing in his head as he inhaled a shaky breath, his eyes twitching. Louder and louder, they hummed until all he could do was retrieve a knife from the kitchen and barge into the room to exact punishment.

That night, he murdered the whore and the animal who dared to make a cuckold of him and hid their dead bodies in a secret room. The following day, he told the townsfolk that his wife had disappeared. Rumors spread, but nothing quite matched the truth. They blamed his wife’s disappearance on the curse that took his family and gave him a blue beard. 

René did not correct them or say anything about the matter since there was no need to clear his name. He was innocent in the eyes of the people, and his wealth was enough to attract new maidens. So after a few years, when the townsfolk seldom talked about his first wife and when he found another woman worthy of his hand, he remarried.

* * *

His second wife was another failed attempt to settle.

She was as rich as he and cared little for parties and frivolities. He had truly loved her, but when he found her cheating him of his money and besmirching his name to defraud good men of their fortunes, he had murdered her in blind anger.

Again, he hid her body and reused the same story, but the townsfolk were not easy to fool twice. When the whispers grew into insurmountable heights and the questioning refused to stop, René departed to another town in the west, where he lived humbly. 

Soon, however, the people revealed his identity as René Devereaux de Toulouse, and when word of his riches spread across the town and caused a stir, another maiden stole his heart.

His third wife was more refined than her predecessors. She brought along with her an air of sophistication and grace afforded only to those born of high status, far from the despicable image of René’s mother tormenting his every moment. She was the perfect wife, and René could imagine spending time with her until his dying days.

What forced him to kill her was entirely his fault.

He took her to his estate in Toulouse during the spring months, showed her the blossoming roses, and gazed at the twinkling stars. Together, they strolled through the thriving streets during the day, chatted by the warm hearth at night. It was a blissful visit to a place sullied with morbid memories.

All was well until, one day, in his library, René heard a harrowing scream echoing from somewhere in the house. Startled, he rushed towards the sound, fearing the worst, but even his imagination could not prepare him for what he found.

His wife was standing tense before an open door, her hands covering her mouth. Her back was to him, her eyes focused on what lay within the room. Horror seized René’s heart as he recognized that door and smelled the putrid stench of rotting flesh. Beyond the threshold lay three bodies bloated and green and very, very dead.

“I can explain,” René said, barely above a whisper, hearing the telltale beginning of the recurring melodies.

Shaking her head, his wife stumbled backward—one step, then another. Fear shrouded her face. Whatever they shared, whatever love they had, was gone. Shoving René aside, she darted for the nearest exit, and without further ado, he chased her on pure instinct alone.

They tumbled over each other out the front door, René on top, his hands already around his wife’s throat. She struggled under him, kicking and punching and scratching and screaming, but René did not relent. The melodies reached a forte, a peak where the past and present merged, combining mirror images, the once-victim now the aggressor.

René cried an animalistic sound as he tightened his hold, a desperate attempt to end their suffering. When her chest finally stopped its labored rise and fall, when the melodies finally dissipated, he let go and rolled onto his back. Panting, he stared at the stars slowly surfacing from behind the dark clouds, tears streaming down his cheeks.

* * *

He did not remarry for a long while. Whether from melancholy or fear, he did not know.

He traveled from town to town, not staying long enough to get well-acquainted with the townsfolk, and always returned to Toulouse during the spring months. It was a lonely life—returning home to the haunting melodies in his head, eating alone at his long table, having no one to talk to throughout the restless nights. But he still attended the occasional parties and festivities of the wealthy.

There, he met her, a daughter of a fine lady who laughed and gossiped with her sister from afar. René stared at her as she turned around and locked eyes with him. All at once, the melodies quieted.

He flinched, wondering if she saw right through him, saw the blood staining his soul. But there were no squinted eyes or pursed lips. She just smiled at him. He smiled back. And for some reason, in the hymns whispering through his bones, in his numbed soul thrumming in his heart of hearts, he knew she would be his last.

“The Official Owner of His Disease”

* * *

I still had tears marked on my face, strongly creased on my skin as if they didn’t intend to disappear that soon. I had them, felt them, yet I did my best to hide those strands of dried water.

I refused to seem weak in front of Jimin, refused to fail right in the initial step.

At first, I thought twice before walking into his new office—his first one actually—and thought three times before looking at him in the eyes. But, as much as I wanted to run away from those uncoloured windows, there was no choice.

I was born waiting for those hours to come.

“You must be excited, Jungkook.” Jimin eyed me while raising a corner of his lips, smiling proudly before looking back at the screen of his black computer.

He was proud. Anyone would be.

“Your father is watching you, clapping his hands, standing with his feet together.” He glanced at me once again, talking lowly as if the walls around us weren’t deaf.

“He’s not here.” I looked down at my hands, my throat swallowing hard.

“He’s proud.” He fixed his glasses with two fingers, quickly moistening his already dried lips. “Can’t you hear him?”

I denied it with my head, but I still trusted him. I preferred to trust the reality he told me about instead of the one my eyes insisted on showing me.

It was when my eyes travelled around his desk and met the frames over it I was reminded of horses, their beauty, their sweetness and softness, their long hair being carried by the long sighs of the wind, their legs stepping on the white sand. For years, I wished I could be like them and own that same freedom and calm gaze.

But, one day, I discovered how fragile they were—the way they let their emotions ride their movements and the reasons for them to live. Thinking of that made me shiver, shut my eyes hard and hold my head between my hands for days.

Things are not always the way we want them to be, Jungkook.

Jimin knew about it. He knew it to the point that he had put the picture of a horse over his desk, the picture I had picked from the internet on a rainy day, sitting on his father’s right thigh. He knew it would weaken my senses, make my fists close and let anger consume my veins. Jimin knew and wanted it.

You don’t dream of being dumb, do you?

So I no longer dreamt of becoming one.

“Are you ready?” He stood up, turning the front of another framed photograph above his desk to me, causing my eyes to automatically focus on it. “We used to be happy, Jungkook, and I promise you we’ll be like that again,” he whispered, his lips still forming a smile.

And so I looked at my cheerful grin exposed in the photograph, gulping as soon as I felt the back of my eyes warm, gradually becoming hotter.

“Your life won’t stop.”

Then, my bottom lip was bitten and my eyes shut, the three joyful children of the photograph Jimin just showed me still beating and kicking the walls of my head.

“I k-know.” I couldn’t help but let myself stutter, let my voice tremble and my hands shiver.

“You’re so lucky, Jungkook. Why are you the only one unable to see that?”

It may be hard at first, child, but it will get better as you let the time pass.

“Jungkook.” He sighed and glanced at the door, letting out a low and slow chuckle as his dark pupils eyed me once again. “I know it’s hard to leave the medicine all the sudden, but I can swear it w—”

“W-What?” I blinked twice, already able to feel a wet and slippery trail trickling down my cheek boiled in heat.

“You’re no longer taking the medicine. You’ve always known about that.” He seemed surprised, probably also disappointed, dissatisfied.

Jimin knew I wasn’t that strong; he was extremely aware of the weight of my weakness. I had always been that type of kid who took home birds searching for a way to heal their wings, that boy who covered his eyes during battles and that child who would never involve himself in heavy arguments. Jimin was aware of the work I meant for him, and apparently, he was ready for that. I wasn’t.

He could try, but he would never be able to understand the pain my job would make me have to carry.

“I can’t, Jimin! P-Please, I’m begging you! I-I’m not read—”

“It’s a rule.” His voice was firmer, coldly cutting the tears from my eyes.

Walking over to me, Jimin explored my eyes as soon as he held my chin in a thumb of his. At first, I avoided his gaze, the glare I knew he’d give me, the pressure I knew I’d end up feeling, but as the seconds passed and I understood he was waiting for me, I gave up on my fears and stared back, gulping.

“I know you’re young, Jungkook. I know you’re too young to finally leave it behind after eighteen years straight, but it’s still a rule you must follow.” He weakly raised a corner of his lips, glancing at the ceiling as his sclera was lightly lit by the yellowish lamp. “He’s getting worried.” Jimin leisurely tilted his head at me, watching tears restarting water in my reddish eyes. My nose hurt, and my cheeks burned. “You don’t want to disappoint him again, do you?”

He glanced at the door, checking if it was closed, and licked his lips as his glasses slightly slid down his sweaty nose.

He was nervous. I knew he was worried about our future just like I was. Jimin had to be the man his father was before. He needed to take care of me for the rest of his life, not caring about anything else. He was supposed to settle me as his first priority, as the person he’d do anything for, and I was aware of the difficulty I was adding to his job, which made me curious about why he kept calm, silent, and not mad.

“I d-don’t want to, J-Jimin, but every time I r-remember when I had that shit in my blood, I-I can o-only recall that d-day with the h-hors—”

Jimin understood.

“It still scares you, doesn’t it?” He took a slight breath before pulling away from me, heavily sitting on his chair again, his head resting on its back as he looked up at the ceiling. “He’s feeling guilty again, Jungkook.”

For the first time, he let me cry, not interrupting me a single time.

“I’ll fail this, Jimin. You know I’ve always failed.” I raised my gaze until it reached the dark circles under his eyes covered by his round-thin glasses, watching as he handed me a document filled with small words I didn’t even have to read.

You were born to sign it, Jungkook.

I was aware of that. As much as I could complain about it, deep inside, I knew there was no coming back, no way of getting rid of my fate. I was more than aware. I was born to write my name on the piece of paper that would automatically make me the owner of Dad’s company, the owner of his responsibilities, the official owner of his disease. I knew it all, but I wished I didn’t.

Maybe it would have been easier if I didn’t know what all of that meant.

“You won’t, not this time,” Jimin said.

I gulped, locking his eyes with mine to transfer his hope to me, his motivation and courage.

I wondered if Sleeping Beauty felt it the same way when she learned about the curse her name had been transporting for years. I could only wonder if her parents felt the same way mine did. I wondered if someone would save me from my curse the same way someone saved her from hers.

I’m sorry for letting you live, Jungkook.

Jimin handed me a pen as soon as he noticed the tears on my cheeks drying, my eyes way more melancholic than frustrated. With an index finger, he showed me the place to sign.

And so I did, the last drop of salty water falling from my right eye.

“He’s watching, Jungkook. He knows that tear fell out of joy.”

“I wished he could be here again,” I mumbled, my lips humid from so much crying and my head sick from so much despair.

“But he is,” Jimin whispered and slowly pointed at my hot cheek, his eyebrows challengingly raising as his teeth formed a newborn grin. “See? He has just cleaned it.”

Things are not always the way we want them to be.

Some could call me paranoid but, that time, I really saw the tear disappear.

“We found another one.” This single statement could refer to anything from another insignificant mosquito buzzing about the room to another fragment of the broken necklace lying on the floor or even another traitor associated with the Royal Betrayal.

Unfortunately for me, the look on his face suggested that it was along the lines of the last possibility. Letting out a breathy sigh, I prepared myself to leave the sumptuous breakfast laid out in front of me, courtesy of the Royal Chef. Before I could ask him more about what, or rather, whom he was talking about, Jimin beat me to it.

“Found another what?”

When my gaze locked with his, I noticed him take a quick deep breath before speaking, a small yet noticeable action if you had been taught to carefully observe and peruse people’s body language. Dominie ensured that my observation and comprehending abilities were always in tip-top condition when it came to people.

If I was truly going to be crowned Queen, I needed to be capable of having an honest understanding of the intentions and motives of those around me. With power and fame came a great number of people who would stop at nothing to bring you down, and their body language could always give them away. If I were to master this art, no one could ever come at me without my knowing, and my mentor, Dominie, was ruthless when it came to ensuring that I was more than capable of exploiting their body language to help me discern them for who they truly were.

“Not ‘what,’ Sir, but whom. Another miscreant with an insubordinately high sense of amour propre. The egotistic brat refuses to leave and demands an audience with His Majesty. I’m afraid he’s quite adamant and is building up quite the ruckus. He even threatened to approach the media if he is denied the audience he seeks,” my chief escort elaborated.

“Father will take care of the press. He practically owns all of the Communication Networks. One puny little boy isn’t going to change the authority he holds over them,” I retorted quickly in hopes of not having to deal with another angry, discontented rebel.

“He threatened to distribute pamphlets about how the Royal Palace dealt with those who chose to voice their grievances. It’ll sow the seeds of discontent in the people’s minds and stir a revolution. Besides, this would be an outright denial of a citizen’s right to free speech and set a very bad precedent for the competency and transparency of the working of the Monarchy. The rebels are already behind most of the common people’s dissatisfaction with the Royalty, and if he’s not addressed, it’ll only add fuel to the fire while also. . .”

While Seokjin continued his elaborate thesis on the potential dangers this single unarmed little boy could pose to our authority, I contemplated my alternatives to dealing with an angry rebel before breakfast, although it didn’t seem like I could get out of it. By the time I finally lost all hope and was prepared to tell Jin to get the guards ready, the Chief Escort caught my attention with some especially horrifying news.

“Oh, and your father already knows about this. He himself told me to send you in his place. I believe his exact words were—It’s about time my daughter proves her worth as the future Queen instead of simply lazing about the Royal Household.”

“So, Father thinks I’m incapable of running the kingdom. Huh, not quite unlike him. Guess I just have to prove his assumptions false.” I snickered to myself. “Seokjin, get the guards ready. I’ll meet that boy in Court as soon as I’m done with breakfast. Oh, and have Abigail sent over at once, please.”

As I grabbed the syrup, I felt Jimin’s eyes on me—curious, questioning and perturbed. His foot was agitatedly tapping the floor, his fingers drumming on the table.

“You know, it’s not your fault. You’re doing all you can, but he’ll probably never accept you for who you are. Who you want to be. All he ever cares about is the throne, and of course, in his accurately perceptive opinion—women aren’t fit to lead the State.”

I wanted to smile at the sarcasm in his words but could only nod silently, trying to thwart all the painful memories—and the tears—from rushing up to the surface. He just grabbed my hand and held it in his, interweaving our fingers and gently squeezing mine as he reminded me of just how much more I was worth, trying to comfort me in the best way possible.

Well, not the bestest best considering what he’s capable of, but eh, pretty close.

As Yoongi brought the second serving of pancakes, I eagerly set my sights on the gorgeously golden little beauties as I relished the divine aroma arousing my senses. Yoongi served the best pancakes, and I meant it —The Best in all of Illéa and even the world. Scratch that. He served the most delicious food in creation.

“Serving your Queen-to-be another round of your heavenly pancakes so that she’ll fulfill your desires?” Jimin ragged Yoongi with a suggestive smirk on his face.

“What desires?” I asked inquisitively, my curiosity aroused.

The normally emotionless Yoongi shifted uncomfortably before placing the platter of pancakes in front of me. “Eat up, little muffin. If what I heard is right, you’ll need all your strength today.”

Looking back at it now, I suppose I could have inquired how he heard the news so quickly if he had been busy cooking all morning or the sudden change in topic, but I only pointed out that I wasn’t ‘little’ anymore.

“You’re always going to be ‘little’ to me, muffin. Now, eat. Please.”

As if on cue, Abigail arrived right when breakfast ended. With a quick peck on Jimin’s cheek, I headed back to my quarters with my Head Maid to get dressed. I was greeted by my chambermaids at the entrance to my quarters—Jena, Hana, Dami and Lia. After a short yet relaxing soak in the lavender bubble bath, I stepped into the dress they had picked out for me.

The sleeveless, purple dress featured an off-shoulder neckline, the sash wrapping itself around the top of my arms with a slightly plunging yet elegant neckline. I paired the dress with a matching set of silver and amethyst earrings and necklace along with similarly deep rich purple heels.

As I gazed back at my reflection in the full-length mirror, I had to admit, I looked ethereal. The dress perfectly fit over my curves, and the rich purple exuded pure royal charm, capable of bending any obstinate pertinacious man to my will. The accessories only amplified my appeal, and I was fully prepared to meet the irksome rascal who was responsible for ruining my relatively peaceful morning.

After descending the winding staircase, I was greeted by a handsomely dressed Jimin, clad in his third favourite all-black suit with a contrasting brilliant white tie. His blonde hair had been smoothly combed back with some hairspray, and a shining diamond ring adorned his little finger—my gift to him for his eleventh birthday.

His eyes widened slightly when they caught sight of me, a light blush of pink embellishing his cheeks, his eyes sparkling and mouth gaping.

“Are you gonna stare all day long now?”

Suddenly realising that he had been unintentionally goggling me, the embarrassed man abruptly cleared his throat and gently placed a kiss on my right hand.

“Only because your beauty is bewitching, mi amor. I apologize, though. I was planning to only escort you to the Court, but now it seems that my presence is required, lest I end up with a harassment case on my hands.”

I only looped my hand in his outstretched arm, smiling internally at his flattering nicknames reserved solely for me. We walked in silence, and he simply squeezed my hand when we neared the entrance. That little gesture itself conveyed more than words could. At that moment, I felt ready to take on the world.

Which was pretty good considering what I had to face when the doors opened to reveal the Court Room.

Sweat was dripping down her face when Brianna awoke, trembling. She pushed away from the quilt, tied her hair in a messy bun, and headed to her tiny bathroom. The cold water splashing on her face calmed her down a little, but her breath was still heavy. She tiptoed back to her bedroom and grabbed her phone.

Three unread messages.

“Weird,” she thought. “Nobody ever texts me.”

Her heart began racing as she thought about the most impossible and worst-case scenarios. It was the summer vacation, and there was no reason for anyone to message her. Zoey and Sam were probably hanging out and had made plans for the entirety of the holidays while she was to spend hers in a summer camp.

She despised the idea of not being able to be near her parents for a couple of weeks. The longest she had ever left her home was for a field trip that was supposed to last for a week, but Brianna was so homesick that she had left on the second day. Not to mention that she was fourteen and everyone made fun of her for crying with her favorite stuffed toy.

“Don’t listen to them, Bri. The bond you have with your parents is extremely special, and nobody can understand it better than you do. You know what’s best for you,” her best friend said.

“But they’ll hate me. I’m already the black sheep in our grade,” Brianna sobbed.

“You’re the most incredible person I have ever met, and don’t let others’ opinions get to you. It’s what they want, and you’re better than that. I love you.”

Her best friend had always been there for her, both in the good and the bad times. She never really was the black sheep; she simply did not fit in well. She did not enjoy the same things as her classmates, and her social awkwardness limited her when making new friends.

She glanced back at her phone and opened the first message.

“Briii! I’m going to miss you so much. Can I come at 8 am to say one last final goodbye? Please please please.”

She smiled. Zoey always had so much energy, and even though it did feel overwhelming at times, she had always been there for Brianna. She felt guilty for thinking that Zoey would deliberately not invite her to hang out with her and Sam. After all, she would not be there for a couple of weeks.

“Aw, I’m going to miss you, too, Zo! See you tomorrow at 8 am!” she replied.

It was incredible how much closer Sam, Zoey, and she had become in the past couple of weeks. She had confessed the bullying to Zoey, who had forced her to talk to her parents, who had then forced her to meet with the principal. It was the most embarrassing moment of her life, and she had been annoyed at both her parents and Zoey for days. But once Melanie got what she deserved, she felt relieved.

She stopped thinking about the past and looked back at her phone.

“Hi Bri, I know you hate goodbyes, but I really wanted to see you one last time before you leave,” she read, frowning.

She realized the third and final message had been sent by the person and scrolled down.

“Sorry, Zo stole my phone and wrote this. However, she’s right. I do want to see you one last time!”

Brianna softly laughed. Ever since they started hanging out, Zoey tried to make Sam and her fall in love, but she missed one detail: Zoey was the worst cupid ever. She was not discreet at all, and stealing their phones to send cheesy texts to each other was part of her many failures.

“It’s okay, Sam, don’t worry! See you tomorrow (with Zo I’m assuming, haha)!” Brianna typed.

She turned her phone off and fell into the arms of Morpheus.

* * *

“Brianna!”

Brianna yawned as she woke up with difficulty. She turned around and faced her alarm clock that indicated half-past seven. It was way too early for a Sunday morning, and she covered her face with the quilt.

Throughout the night, she repeatedly woke up, and one time, she froze to death. The next, she was sweating.

“Brianna!” she heard again.

“Brianna is currently unavailable!” she yelled back.

There was a knock on her door, and in response, she hid further under the quilt. Suddenly, the daylight blinded her, and a face began to form in front of her.

“Mom!” she groaned.

“Bri, we talked about this, and you agreed. Now, get ready, or else your Dad and I will leave without you.”

“So you and Dad would drive for three hours to a summer camp I’m supposed to go to for no reason because, if I’m not there, there is no point in you going.”

“Good point, but you know exactly what I meant. Now, get ready, or else you won’t get to eat my delicious crepes.”

Brianna almost fell out of her bed as soon as she heard the word “crepe.” Her relationship with food was indescribable. Besides that, it was an unconditional love that would never fall apart. Her mother smiled at the sight of her daughter, who was running in all directions.

“Also, Zoey called, and she said that she’ll be there in twenty minutes with Sam!” Her mother winked.

“Mom! I don’t have a crush on anyone.”

“Yeah, right. You really think I never was your age?”

Her mother was just as bad as Zoey playing cupid, if not worse. Zoey and Mrs. Sallow, Brianna’s mother, were constantly calling, which at first concerned Brianna. But she quickly discovered the truth, and it was almost as bad as not knowing.

“Anyways,” Brianna said, rolling her eyes, “when are we leaving?”

“At ten o’clock since you begged us for a little trip around town before leaving, you little drama queen.”

Brianna hated trips and camps, which she had never gone to but somehow knew everything about. The only agreement she and her parents could come to was to go on a mini-trip around the town before leaving.

“An agreement is an agreement, and you cannot say that you’re not excited,” Brianna said.

“Fine, but stop wasting time. You don’t want Sam to see you in your pajamas, do you?”

“Mom!”

Her mother laughed and hurried out of the room.

* * *

Brianna was at the dining table with her parents when a loud knock was heard. Before anyone could react, the knocking became louder and more urgent. Brianna turned to her mother, who just shrugged as her father headed towards the door.

“Mr. Sallow! How are you? It’s been such a long time. I missed you!” Brianna heard.

“It—It’s nice to see you, too, Zoey. You know that you can call me Anthony,” her father mumbled, slightly confused.

“Good morning Mister—Anthony, I mean. Please excuse Zoey’s behavior,” Sam said. “I swear this girl only feels two emotions: sadness or excitement, and there is no in-between. I bet that in less than an hour she’ll be crying like crazy.”

“Sam! That’s not true!”

“Yeah, right. We’ll see.”

“Well, why don’t you two come in and eat some crepes that Lydia made.”

“Lydiaaa! I have some tea to spill!” Zoey screamed.

Her mother clapped and stood up to pull Zoey into a hug. Sam was awkwardly standing behind her, and Brianna’s father was scratching the back of his head as he observed what was happening.

Zoey then hurried to Brianna and almost choked her as she hugged her tight. After that, Zoey and Lydia Sallow left the room to gossip. Sam waved and took a seat in front of her as Anthony Sallow started baking the crepes.

“Hey, Bri,” he started.

“Hey, Sam,” she replied.

“Are you excited about the summer camp?”

“Not really, but I guess it’ll help me learn how to socialize.”

“I’m sure you’ll do great. What are you going to do?”

“Apparently, it’s a surf camp, so I’ll probably do a lot of beach stuff.”

“Cool.”

“Yeah.”

An awkward silence began to set, and they both stared at Anthony, who was still baking the crepes. Finally, he turned around and winked at Brianna, who rolled her eyes.

“What would you like on your crepes?” he asked.

“Can I have sugar, please, Dad?”

“Same for me, please.”

“And for me, too, please!” Zoey yelled from where she was sitting.

A couple of minutes later, when the crepes were set on the table and everything was ready, Zoey and Lydia returned and took a seat. They ate with enthusiasm, chatting about summer plans and surfing, and obviously, Zoey and Brianna’s mother could not help themselves but play cupids.

Brianna had never felt so good in her life, and she realized how much she cared about the four people seated around her. She had met Sam and Zoey a couple of years back, and they had gotten to know each other only for a couple of months. However, they felt like family. Her relationship with her parents had never been stronger. The deep connection between her mother and Zoey had always surprised her but in a positive way.

“I love you all so much,” Brianna said out of the blue.

“I’m going to cry, Bri. Stop,” Zoey responded.

Sam winked at her, mouthing, “I told you so,” and Zoey stuck her tongue out at him.

“We love you, too, darling,” her mother replied.

Her past was not perfect. People had come in and out of her life, leaving scars that would never leave, but Brianna knew she was in charge of her future. Even though she really did not want to go to the summer camp, she knew she would make the most of it. After all, it was supposed to be an adventure of a lifetime.

July 15th, 2020

Everything had calmed down between this new world and the aged vampires who, admittedly, had no idea what they were doing. They thought that a billboard was a hologram and that television was. . . a portal at first? Don’t ask me how this was possible.

But now, a month had passed, and they had familiarized themselves with this new and confusing normal.

They learned it surprisingly quicker than expected, as the boys now had phones in their hands. How? They cheated (and by cheated, I mean stole) a nearby shop that sold tons of expensive phones, but can you really blame them? They even got a house with the same method.

They had no money, and they couldn’t find a way to retrieve any, so they had to try the next best option.

* * *

Jay was scrolling down his phone when he saw an advertisement for a high school in Seoul. It noted that the school had free registration, and so he smirked.

No tuition fee? All the books they use will be given out to the students? It sounded like a dream, honestly.

“Heeseung!” he shouted excitedly.

Heeseung, who was drying his shiny wet, dark hair with a towel by ruffling it, responded with a hum. He was a little occupied. 

Jay shouted again, “I found a school we could all attend!”

“What?” Heeseung almost screamed in surprise. Almost like pigeons, the others overheard and rushed into the room.

“You found a school?” Everyone got excited by this news, and Sunoo screamed out in joy. Then Heeseung came in, with his half-dried hair.

He bombarded Jay with questions. “Where is it located?” 

“Seoul,” Jay answered, deadpan. 

“Tuition fee?” 

“Free.” 

“What about the books?” 

“Free.” 

“Uniform?” 

Jay looked at his phone again and read the details. “Uniforms can be bought at the school’s clothing store.”

He then read out the location details, and Heeseung sighed. Everyone’s shoulders sank. They knew it was too good to be true.

“So? What do we do?” Jake asked, biting his bottom lip, discouraged. Heeseung was thinking, but he couldn’t say what he had to. He used his telepathy link with the boys instead.

We can’t keep stealing, but we have to do something to get into that school. 

Everyone nodded silently.

There’s a risk we’ll get caught for it, and that could be used against us, Jungwon thought. Are we all completely sure? This is a government school, yes, but we don’t know who we can trust. 

Everyone nodded, sure of their answer.

We just have to be careful, is all. You can make friends with some but trust no one.

Their oracle ended, and everyone’s gaze became serious as they agreed. Heeseung ended the link, and they continued as usual. 

“When are we going?” Sunghoon asked. 

Heeseung looked at the time on his phone, and the corners of his lips raised into a slight smirk. “Since the semester is starting soon, now.”

Everyone smiled, and they left the building, on the run to a new journey.

* * *

They entered the store that Jay was sure was owned by the school. It had the letter “D” in cursive font in a sunflower yellow, and a tiger logo behind it. He was right; it was the same as the advertisement.

Sunghoon took one more look at his phone and cracked his neck. “Well, you guys know what to do. Don’t be seen.”

Everyone nodded, fixating their cautious gazes on the clothing and the pins.

Jungwon teleported everyone inside quietly, and Heeseung altered the minds of the humans to make them seem invisible. The mortals couldn’t hear or see them. Now was their chance.

Jungwon tried on a blazer, which suited his broad shoulders. Everyone gave him a thumbs-up, and now he just had to find a blouse on his own.

Ni-ki, giggling, came out wearing a tie wrapped around his head. He was just wearing the blouse, so he managed to get a laugh out of everyone. Sunoo pulled on the tie, tightened it around his head and cracked up. Ni-ki took off the tie and picked out his pins instead, satisfied with the reactions.

Heeseung was next, and he was very particular with his outfit. He wanted a tie because, according to him, “If we’re going to get some education, we may as well look the part.”

He had on the black blazer like everyone else, but the tie made him seem more like a senior and gave him a stylish, intimidating feel. The boys loved this style and gave him a thumbs-up.

Sunoo grabbed the pins, blazer and blouse and tried them on. His black hair didn’t really work for the outfit, and it made him look more dark and unwelcoming.

Jay noticed this and tilted his head, wincing. “Sunoo, don’t you think your hair could be a bit brighter?” Sunoo was waiting for this moment. He was the “all-seeing eye” of the group because of his powers of seeing the future and the past, and he saw himself dyeing his hair. 

Sunoo nodded, smiling very widely. “I’ll have to try that later!” he said, satisfied with his outfit.

Heeseung, who was busy grabbing a tiger pin, felt a pull on his trousers. It wasn’t a sharp pull, but it was enough to catch his attention. He frowned and froze.

Could the humans see him?

Hesitating, he turned around to see a little boy, a toddler, holding onto his trousers. The very tall and brooding Heeseung knelt down to talk to the boy, and his expressions softened. “Hi, there! Where are your parents?” He held the child’s shoulders delicately, his tone cheerful and kind.

The boy pointed to his left, and Heeseung craned his head to look. His mother, Heeseung assumed, was in the corner searching for clothing with a tall male rubbing the nape of his neck in embarrassment and smiling.

Heeseung’s eyes sparkled with innocence as he led the small boy back to his family. But for one second, as he led the small boy back to them, Heeseung felt a gaze on the back of his neck. A shiver went down his spine.

The woman, who held onto the little boy again, was walking away, and the tall male was looking right at him. He glared at Heeseung, and Heeseung thought—no, knew for a fact that he could see him. He felt a drop in his stomach. The male broke his gaze.

“K? Are you coming?” The male’s sharp stare cracked, and his gaze lightened, snapping his neck to the woman’s direction. 

“I’m coming!” K gave Heeseung a smirk and left.

“Heeseung? You good there?” Jake asked, suddenly appearing behind him with his blazer and blouse draped over his arm with his pins.

Heeseung remained tight-lipped and shook it off for a moment. “Nothing. Are we all ready to go yet?” 

Jake gave a charming smile, his cheeks showing signs of joy. “Yup, it was fun. I already made sure that the younger ones didn’t trash this side of the store.” 

They both chuckled. 

Heeseung’s smile faded. Who was that? How could he see him? Why did he seem so confident about it?

Knowing he was troubled, Jake gave Heesung a pat on the back and placed an arm over his shoulder. “Let’s go home to prepare and sign up for the school. This is going to be fun.”

And he was right. This was going to be entertaining indeed.

JUNGKOOK

AUGUST 2005, SUMMER

The summertime—a three-month season people all over the world just couldn’t get enough of. A time when everything that made a person laugh or even cry was memorable. Maybe it was the blazing sun or the melting ice cream under the singeing heat that caused so much anticipation in children waiting for the excruciating school year to be out, waiting for those three months of peace together.

We all did. Day by day and month by month. 

But sometimes, for the less fortunate, summer wasn’t always something you would want to remember.

* * *

I was only eight years old, just leaving the third grade. I was just—like everyone else—waiting.

To laugh in one of the parks downtown with my appa while he pushed me high on the swing. To hug my eomma after getting home from school and plant kisses on her fair-skinned cheeks. For me, even when I was this young, I was always waiting.

Waiting for my appa to stop coming home late from work, waiting for my eomma to look me in the eye when I accomplish something, waiting for the day I could call someone my best friend.

But some days, when I’d get impatient and the lonely hours at home were too heavy to keep on my back, I’d speak up. I’d wander around the house quietly and drag my feet on the floor. I’d hum in the paint-chipped halls of the house on my way to my appa, who sat comfortably in his recliner, staring at whatever detective show he liked watching.

When I was close enough, a campfire of courage burning in my belly, I’d tap my appa on the shoulder like a cat’s whisker grazing upon a stranger’s finger.

“Appa. . . Can I ask you something, please?” I’d take a cautious step back, gazing at my appa’s spine-chilling side profile, his growing, coarse, dark beard atop his defined jawline.

I knew not to disturb him when he came home from work; he’d be tired and dying to get some sort of peace, so I wouldn’t dare ask anything of him. But it was so, so quiet. Eomma seemed weaker as of late, her face wasn’t filled with joy, and her eyes didn’t glimmer like they did when I had finally learned to ride my bike, pushing the pedals as she grinned.

Now, she stayed in her room, sometimes not even responding when her name was called. She was drowning in the sheets and drifting so far that I couldn’t see her, even when I stood in the doorway

It had been long. So, so long since I had an unforgettable experience. It tapped and picked at my brain, buzzed in my fingertips whenever I gazed out of the window at the sweet summer sun. I wanted to go somewhere, to do something.

When my appa’s eyes peered back into mine and softened, I felt my heart throb with spirit.

“Go on ahead, Jungkook,” he encouraged, and my neck would stick out so I could say my proposal.

My hands folded behind me as I fiddled with a crumpled paper holding the words of my desire. When I pulled it in front of my eyes, the words stumbled on my tongue.

“I-I want. . . I—Can I. . . Can we do s-something today?” My appa blinked, a faint smile appearing on his lips. His arm reached out toward me, and his fingers stretched as he planted his hand on top of my head, ruffling my hair gently.

He laughed. “My son, it’s okay. . . No need to be afraid. It’s been really dull lately, hasn’t it?”

I nodded, and my appa snickered. “Alright then, go ahead and find your sandals. I’ll be out here waiting for you. I’ll let your eomma know we’re heading out.”

And he did.

I remember every second of the wait.

Skipping through the halls this time, passing my eomma in the bedroom down the hall to pick out shoes that were underneath my racecar bed.

I remember the drive.

Almost running a red light because my appa knew I wanted to get there fast.

I remember the arrival.

Walking along the sides of the large sign with trimmed bushes underneath that read ‘Sea Life Busan’ with a shark statue behind it.

I remember the fun.

Holding my appa’s hands as we traveled further into the aquarium, seeing the different kinds of marine life and exhibits, the colorful fins and habitats surrounding us at each turn. I ran through a tunnel with water held back by glass as I went on, fish swimming and thriving as we continued.

My appa loved starfish. He seemed to love all the different colors and shapes, sometimes comparing them to flowers my eomma had grown in the backyard of our home.

I remember our home, as well.

Roaring with excitement after getting back from the aquarium, thinking of describing the scales and fins to my eomma. I craved to see her wide eyes shine like the jewelry she always wore, wanted the clouds in her head to part so the sun could rise and spark the twinkling in her irises once more.

I remember the hallway.

Racing to her room, my appa setting up the kitchen table for dinner. The sound of the sink’s water soothed me as I crept toward the bedroom door.

I remember the bedroom.

Its bitingly cold atmosphere prickling my skin with goosebumps as I eased to the empty bed where my eomma had left the sheets in disarray. I searched around the room with my eyes, scaling from top to bottom until they lay on the closed door of the bathroom.

I remember the bathroom.

Inching my way to the wooden door, my hand resting on the knob carefully with a weak grip. I pressed my small ear to the wood, my breathing slowed so I could hear anything coming from the other side. 

I pulled back, frustrated with the silence, my hands and heart telling me to discover. I twisted the knob, the blood rushing in my veins hot once I pushed through.

I remember when everything became nothing.

A choked breath settled in my throat as my stomach churned from the sight. My eomma’s limp hand hung over the side of the bathtub, her fingers and body motionless. The yellow bottle of medication was spilled on the ground before me.

I heard nothing.

My legs grew painfully weak, my joints becoming licorice as I dropped on my knees, my eyes itching with tears as I scooted toward the bathtub. My heart wasn’t beating the same; I could barely feel it. I picked up my mother’s hand, admiring her veins void of the life I had hoped to see. It was cold as my fingers grazed her lifeless arm.

I felt nothing.

My lungs were dry, burned from shrieking for my eomma. My arms plunged into the surface of the bathtub’s cloudy water, and my hands asked for something to grasp onto, something to tell them they’re here forever.

But there was nothing.

“Eomma—Eomma! E-Eomma! Please, please, please, don’t leave me! Please! I love you. . . I—Appa loves you! Please! Please don’t go away!” I wanted to hear her voice. I wanted to see her eyes. I wanted to feel her blissful warmth.

But she was drifting, drowning in the bathtub that had taken her last breath, her last efforts.

My fingers curled helplessly around my eomma’s soaked shirt. Heavy and drenched, I attempted to pull her to the surface to view her pale, life-stricken face.

Her eyes didn’t open. Her heart didn’t beat. I heard nothing.

A sob rolled out of my mouth, covering my throat in flames and thorns as I yelled ear-splittingly high. “No! No, no, no! Eomma. . . Come back! Open your eyes and look at me! Please! I need you to hug me! I need you—I need you to—I need you! I promise we won’t leave you home alone again; I promise. I promise we’ll take you with us! So you can see the—see the stars. . . The starfish that look like flowers. . . Please!” 

I shook my eomma’s body with hands that could barely hold her upright. Her limbs felt like hundreds of weights as I pulled her to my chest, the front of my shirt drenched with the tub’s water.

I remember the footsteps.

The crescendoing of my appa’s footsteps hitting the backs of my ears. I squeezed my eomma’s head to my chest as I rocked back and forth on my knees, my fingers carding in her brown stands. Searing tears flooded my cheeks like lava on the earth’s surface. So unforgiving as it scorched my face and ran off my chin into my eomma’s hair.

My appa’s shouts startled me, and his large hands gripped my shoulder. “Jungkook! Jung—step away, step away!”

I shook my head as I loosened my grip on my eomma.

She was gone. She was empty. She was drowned. She was everything.

And I did nothing. I couldn’t do anything.

In my home, there was always silence, with nothing there to fill in the gaps, nothing to pass the time.

 Even during the summertime, when pools were open to jump and swim in, my life had already sunk. So early, so fast.

In that time of sinking, I sat inside and learned to loathe the silence.

Because you never truly know where it will lead you.

2010

“What are you doing here? Is there anyone else here?” Sunhee asked rapidly. “Please tell me you have your phone or got a friend or someone with you before you come here.”

“Well, to answer your question. . .” Hoseok paused, considering his answer and Sunhee’s agitation, “I spilt water at the studio and was looking for a mop, which brought me here. I’m sorry to say my phone is in the studio. I was alone, and there was no one else on this floor except us.”

“Did you happen to hear any banging sounds when you were in the studio?” Sunhee asked, figuring out how far a person could hear if they knocked on the door again. It was quite thick and sturdy, much to her dismay.

“I’ve been in the studio for a while, and I didn’t hear anything.”

Sunhee sighed. The studio was sound-proofed, so no one would hear the noise from the storage unless they were in the corridor. Other than practice or meetings, no one went to that floor. That made it a perfect hiding spot, but due to this incident, she had to find somewhere to hide next time. She needed to clear her head so that they could escape the room. She was glad she was not claustrophobic, or the small enclosure would make her go crazy.

“Can we move the rack?” Hoseok asked as he looked up at the air vent. 

Sunhee silently cheered since Hoseok had the same thought as hers. They could get out if that worked. “I was in the middle of clearing the rack to climb up the vent.” 

Sunhee resumed moving the items. When Hoseok helped, they finished in just minutes.

“Damn effing damnation,” Sunhee and Hoseok cursed when they realized a part of the rack was bolted to the wall.

“There must be another way to get up,” Sunhee said. “I’m so so so dead if I miss practice after this.” She looked at her watch. “Scratch that. I am already late for practice. I’m so doomed.”

“You can climb up on my shoulder and try to get to the vent,” Hoseok suggested. They were both quite tall, and the ceiling looked reachable. If Sunhee could move the vent cover, there was a possibility his idea would work. They could tie the cloth in the room together for him to climb up when Sunhee got into the vent. Or better yet, he only needed Sunhee to get out and open the door from outside.

“We could try,” Sunhee said before apologetically adding, “but I’m heavy.”

Hoseok smiled. “You’re not as heavy as the guys I had to hoist up. I can’t let you carry me. I’m way heavier than you are.”

“How chivalrous of you. Good thing you didn’t ask what my weight was, or I might have had to deck you.”

Hoseok crouched to accommodate Sunhee as she climbed on his shoulder. “Here goes,” he said before standing, Sunhee balancing on him. She straightened her arm towards the vent cover and cursed again.

“What’s wrong?” Hoseok asked.

“I can’t reach it. The vent is screwed shut. We are so freaking screwed,” Sunhee lamented as she tried moving her arms and stretching her body to reach the top. Her movement made Hoseok lose his balance.

“Watch out!” he exclaimed before they fell on the floor with Sunhee on top of him.

“I’m sorry!” Sunhee repeatedly apologized, getting off him as quick as she could, knowing he would hurt a lot as he cushioned her fall. “Are you okay?”

“I’m okay.” Hoseok wheezed, still not moving on the floor.

“Are you sure? That was quite a fall.”

Hoseok groaned as he pulled himself up to a sitting position. “I’ll live. Are you okay?” He looked at her worriedly. Her fall would have hurt more since she was higher up than he was.

“I’m fine. You took most of the brunt from that fall.”

“I could try lifting you again and get onto that stool at the same time. You could reach that cover for sure,” he said, pointing to the stool before looking around the room. “We could find something in here we could use as a screwdriver.”

“I vote nay for the stool. It’s dangerous. We can both topple down, and that could cause an even more serious injury,” Sunhee said. “Since it is difficult to maintain balance on the floor, it would be ten times harder standing on the stool. Besides, the cover is screwed shut too. What is it with this agency and screws? We might as well admit defeat.” She sat cross-legged and looked up forlornly.

“Someone is bound to be opening the door sooner or later,” Hoseok said, smiling slightly to reassure her.

“You’re right. Until that happens, I guess we’re stuck here. Do you have anything scheduled for the day?”

“Just personal practice and then home. How about you?” Hoseok moved to the nearest wall, trying to get comfortable.

“Practice with the instructor, which is going to cause me trouble later,” Sunhee said miserably. “I just hope it won’t be tomorrow until someone opens this door.”

Hoseok nodded. “I hope so, too.”

“How long have you been a trainee here?”

“Huh?” Hoseok blurted out. The question was so out of the blue. “This is going to be my second year. How about you?”

“Been here since 2005.”

“That’s long.”

“I know. I guess I’m the oldest around. I have the skills but not the cute look they want. I look too plain.”

“No, you’re not plain. You’re beautiful, and you’re one of the finalists for the next girl group that’s going to debut,” Hoseok said.

Sunhee laughed. “That’s the first time someone who’s not my family told me I’m beautiful. You don’t have to butter me up. I own a mirror.”

“No, seriously. You are beautiful,” Hoseok said convincingly. What was not pretty about the senior trainee in front of him? She was right about not being in the cutesy category. Her face was more mature, and if there was one word that could describe her looks, it was serene beauty—not that she was going to believe him, anyway. “I can’t say the same for me, though. I heard people going around saying I look like a horse.”

“Who said that?” Sunhee asked. That was a rude thing to say. Hoseok had a friendly face, high cheekbones and a prominent nose. His striking looks would make people swoon for years to come.

“Oh, come on. Don’t tell me you’ve never heard anyone say anything about the horse-faced trainee,” Hoseok said disbelievingly.

“I didn’t.” Honestly, Sunhee paid no attention to the names people gave trainees. Some managers were notorious for name-calling. It was the same for some trainees, and she didn’t want to be in any part of it. She knew her code name around there was ‘ordinary.’ It hurt, but she could care less. She knew she could out-dance any of them in a snap, and so could Hoseok. 

It was a shallow industry in that regard, but she knew good looks would be a plus. It sold. She could work on the skills, but the thought of going under the knife just to fit into the K-pop standard of beauty made her shudder. Just because many people were doing it, that didn’t mean she would do it, too.

“You’re a good dancer,” Sunhee said.

“How do you know?”

“I see you daily, dancing your day away, anytime, anywhere. You seriously got those killer moves. You’re smooth and neat. It’s only a matter of time until you get to debut.”

“I thought you didn’t know me. You didn’t even know my name.”

“Wrong. I know you. I’ve seen you around, but I never caught your name. That’s different. Besides, Seokhee and Hoseokie sound about the same, so I knew your name. Partially.” Sunhee smiled. “I just hope the agency knows they have a talented person like you here.”

“Why thank you,” Hoseok said. “Anyway, I’m planning to go for an audition for another agency. I don’t think this one has any other plans for me, and my contract is ending soon. I’d better make a move before it does.”

“Really? Which agency are you auditioning for?”

“Some small agency. None that you heard of, probably,” Hoseok replied, flicking at the non-existent dirt at the edge of his trainers.

“Why? This agency is famous, and I think you have a chance here.”

“That’s the problem. It’s famous, so there are a lot of trainees for them to choose from. They will overlook me.”

“You’re right. Lots of pretty and talented people to choose from,” Sunhee whispered. They had to struggle for the casting team to notice them. Just talent alone didn’t help that much. You needed the looks, the skills, the voice, and the personality to make the cut. It was not a walk in the park for some. Many have already failed. It was a competitive industry. “Just look at me, nineteen and still a trainee. Still haven’t debuted,” Sunhee said after a while.

“Yet,” Hoseok added. “You’re definitely going to debut this time. None of the finalists I know could b-boy and pop like you do. You killed it during the dance battles, and no one stands a chance against you.”

“Thanks for the compliment, Hoseok,” Sunhee said, a small smile on her lips. “Can I call you Hoseokkie? It sounds better and cuter, and it fits you.”

Hoseok went red immediately. He was not used to people openly praising him for his looks. “Of course.”

“How old are you anyway? I know you’re younger than me, but I don’t know by how much.”

“I’m seventeen,” he said.

Sunhee beamed. “Cool. I have a feeling we’re going to be way closer after this.”